Danny Died (And The Wolves Are Howling)
by BlackRosePoetry
Summary: Danny Fenton is four-years-old. Danny Fenton turns on a portal. Danny Fenton dies. Or, alternatively, Danny Phantom forms in Walker's prison, and because the warden has no idea what to do, he kidnaps a misery-eating bitch and threatens her into helping him. Chaos ensues. Rated T for now - mentions of violence towards kids, vivisection, enucleation, and Spectra's potty-mouth.
1. Chapter 1

Walker was broken out of his paperwork-induced stupor by the glow. Sick-sticky green and almost palpable. The warden growled to himself but grumbled his way through gathering the necessary forms from the back file-cabinet. Leave it to Bullet to take off on the day a new ghost formed in his office. At five in the daggum morning.

New arrivals were a pain in the rear.

_Especially_ when he was the one who had to deal with them.

Oh, well, bully for him because if how small the coalescing form was anything to go by, he was dealing with a daggum kid on top of it.

The warden lined the various death certificates and identification forms neatly out on his desk, lighting a cigar as he went. He chewed on the end, inhaled, then exhaled a cloud of thick, noxious smoke. It formed an odd shape, almost like a head with horns, and Walker snarled as he brushed his hand through the cloud to dissipate it. The new ghost was taking its sweet damn time forming.

Eyes narrowed, Walker stared at the figure. Green ectoplasm. . . somewhat standard, if a bit brighter than what he was accustomed to. There was just the barest tinge of something blue in the mix, like ice or a winter sky. Crap, did that mean he'd have another ice-junky on his hands? Frostbite in of himself was a nightmare to deal with. . . all that hair, and his people lived with no _rules_.

If there was one thing Walker could not abide, it was an inability to follow the rules.

Of course, there was a difference between rules and Rules, but the new punk on the block would figure that out.

Hopefully – sometimes it took a bit.

There was a gasp. But not so much a gasp as it was a clawing, rushing sound of air in a raw throat. Desperate, panicked, all-consuming. Walker frowned; who the hell _hyperventilated_ when they reformed?

The newly-solidified ghost dropped to the floor in a nauseating heap of bony limbs and squelching ectoplasm. Walker stared. And stared. And then, when he thought he might've finally lost his grits, he stared some more. This was a _child_. An actual kid. The boy had to have been four, maybe five. Six at the very oldest.

Walker stared at the shivering heap. The kid wore some sort of jumpsuit. Or, at least, what _used_ to be a jumpsuit. The thing hung in ragged tatters about his thin frame, clinging on with either determination or straight-up magic. He could see the brat's ribs, along with scars that rose along his green-tinged skin. Lots of scars. Lots of _painful_ looking scars, including a core-chilling Y-shaped one peeping out on his chest.

There was another gasp, ragged and broken, and Walker cleared his throat. The boy didn't move. He didn't even make eye contact. He just kept his head down, face hidden behind a mass of white hair.

"Take a seat," Walker ordered.

The warden didn't even think to lower his voice from its usual gruff bark.

That. . . was a mistake.

The boy jerked, skinny limbs flying about in a mad scramble to get away from the warden. Walker's frown became a touch sterner, apprehension clawing its way into his throat.

"I ain't gonna hurt ya'll, brat," he growled. "Just sit in the chair."

The boy's head shot up.

Walker froze and the cigar dropped, forgotten, from his fingers to the floor.

There. . . there weren't. . . there weren't any _eyes_.

The kid had no eyes. None. His face was fine-boned, almost delicate looking, and the boy's apparent age was even more painfully obvious. But there was no baby fat to protect the bones or pad his cheeks. And there were _claw marks_ along his eye sockets.

No – not claw marks. Blade marks, precise and designed to hurt. Someone had removed this kid's _eyes_ with a _scalpel_. All that had formed were pits of livid green ectoplasm, startling against his pale skin.

For a long moment, the odd pair just sat there. Frozen in respective shock and terror.

Then Walker took a step forward. Another step forward. Another. The boy remained glued to the spot, obviously unaccustomed to his new senses. Every inch of his frail body was taut with nerves. Fight or flight. A caged animal struggling not to flee.

Walker stopped a step away. He tilted his head.

The boy _followed the motion_.

Well, if that didn't beat all. . .

Walker knelt to the kid's level and tried to arrange his face into something calming. Or, at the very least, less angry. The best he managed was a less grumpy version of his usual frown, but that was to be expected under the circumstances. Something told him not to try and touch the little punk – instinct or whatever – so he stayed still and kept his voice quiet when he spoke.

"Name's Walker, kid. Do y'all know where you are?"

A strangled wheezing noise was his reply, followed by the kid curling into a defensive ball. Walker sighed.

"I'm gonna take that as a 'no.'"

The little boy shook so hard it was a miracle he didn't vibrate straight into the floor. Walker's frown deepened. Well, if this wasn't just five gallons of bull-hockey in a two-gallon bucket. . .

"Alright, punk, I'm gonna take off my coat," he rasped, "and I'm gonna put it on ya. Alright? It ain't gonna hurt. I promise."

The warden shrugged out of his pristine overcoat and tried not to grimace at the thought of putting over the emaciated figure in front of him. But he did it anyway. He moved slowly, so he wouldn't startle the kid. Poor thing was already terrified – wouldn't do to make him even _more _scared of the people who were trying to help.

His coat swallowed the child, covering everything but the top of his head. Still, Walker thought, maybe it'd at least help him relax a bit. Keep him from accidentally falling through the floor and getting himself stuck. Kid did that they'd _really_ be in the outhouse.

"There ya go, punk. Keep ya from bein' cold. You're so skinny, if you stood sideways and stuck out your tongue, you'd be a zipper." Walker tried to chuckle a bit, but it fell flat.

Those unsettling pits peeped out from beneath the collar of his jacket, and Walker could see a droplet of ectoplasm ooze down the boy's ravaged cheek. Something in his chest seized, freezing cold and burning hot in the same instant. He wanted to _break _someone. Preferably someone who thought it was okay to do this to a child.

Rules existed for a _reason_.

"Alright, punk, think you can tell me your name?"

The kid shuddered again, something of a squeak ringing low in his throat. Thin fingers, purpled about the edges with ragged nails, tightened on the opening of the Walker's coat. But he didn't flinch away. Walker waited for a few minutes – patience was a virtue – but it was evident the kid wouldn't be talking anytime soon.

The warden sighed.

"That's okay, kid. I'm gonna step outside for a bit. Gotta talk to a couple people, but then I'll be back, and we can work on getting you talkin'. Sound like a plan?"

He didn't really expect an answer, but the warden waited for a second before he smiled (it was probably more like a grimace) and stood. The kid squeaked again and disappeared inside the folds of Walker's jacket.

On second thought, he probably should've backed away a bit before he stood.

Walker scrubbed a hand over his face, and the door handle gave a tortured groan from the force of his grip. He made sure to close it quietly behind him. At least the doors didn't _squeak_. Poor kid couldn't handle voices, much less outside sounds.

"Clarke! Benson!" the warden snarled. "Get over here!"

Two guards, a pair of his elites, snapped to attention from where they had been patrolling the corridor. They stayed a fair distance from him – all his guards did – and it was Benson who spoke first.

"Yes, sir?"

Walker could feel his hands shaking. Whether it was from rage or shock, he wasn't sure. But he drew his shoulders back, hands clasped against the small of his back, and fixed the men with a glare. Benson gulped. Clarke went pale.

They feared him. . .

_Good. _

"Get Bullet!" Walker barked. "And don't make me wait. I want him here within the next hour or it'll be your hides I tan. Got that?!"

Their collective salute was perfectly in-sync. "Yes, sir!"

Benson and Clarke shot off, ignoring the sounds of the howling inmates as they passed. Walker stood there for a few more minutes, hands shaking, jaw clenched. Tension was creeping up to his head. He'd end the day with a raging migraine, for sure.

Walker scrubbed the back of his neck.

He hated new arrivals. . .

~*O*~

it's dark danny hates the dark, and it's cold danny hates the cold, and he can't see.

the lab has always been dark and cold but it's even worse now, when he's on mommy's exam table, held down by straps, and he can't move his arms or his legs because mommy did a ex-per-i-ment on him and now they won't listen to his brain, and danny is _scared. . . _

danny is sorry, mommy, so sorry, please don't hurt me anymore, i'll be good, i promise, and daddy is yelling and danny doesn't understand, daddy never yells, not when he's mad, and danny. . .

he _hurts_. . .

hurt hurt hurts because the straps dig into his arms and legs and mommy has been cutting at him, yelling at him, screaming _stop lying, little monster, where's my baby what have you done to my danny?! _and danny doesn't understand because he's right here, mommy, please stop yelling. . .

and he's crying and crying and crying and his mommy keeps yelling and his daddy _hits him_, and he doesn't know what's going on, and danny wants to sleep. he wants to go upstairs and hug jazzy and sleep in his astronaut bed with bear aldrin and he'll even take a bath without complaining, eat his veggies, clean his room, if mommy will just stop yelling at him, stop hurting him. . .

he's so scared. . .

it's so dark and danny doesn't understand because his eyes are _open_, it shouldn't _be dark_, he doesn't understand, and everything hurts so bad. he's cold and he's hungry and mommy and daddy won't stop yelling, won't stop hitting him, won't _stop _even though he's crying and it. . .

he remembers the shiny knife coming at his face and the _cut _and he remembers screaming, remembers trying to fight but his arms wouldn't listen and his legs wouldn't move, and danny thinks about how daddy had joked about something and mommy had _laughed _and. . .

danny is so cold. so very very cold. there's something digging around in his chest and the hurt doesn't hurt so bad anymore, not in his body, but his heart is broken because he's sure mommy and daddy don't love him no more and he can't understand _what he did wrong. . . _

it's so dark danny hates the dark and cold danny hates the cold and danny fenton dies alone.

~*O*~

There were many things that Bullet tolerated from his boss. Mainly because Walker wouldn't hesitate to throw his ass in prison with the others if he didn't. But calling him in without warning was a line that had never been crossed before, and, frankly, the warden's second-in-command hadn't developed the patience to deal with this level of bullshit at _six in the goddamn morning_.

"Boss, I hate to complain, but why am I here?" Bullet growled. "It's six in the morning. On my day off."

Walker rolled his shoulders in agitation and growled. "I know what day it is, Bullet. I ain't lost track of my calendar. But I gotta job for you, an' you ain't gonna like it."

Confusion creased the lieutenant's scarred face, and for the first time since he arrived, he noticed the warden wasn't wearing his customary suit-jacket. "Sir?"

"Follow me. An' keep your mouth shut – I don' need anyone else getting' word of this 'fore I'm ready, you hear?"

The warden turned on his heel without another word, arms crossed behind his back and shoulders stiff as they marched down the hallway. Bullet followed without question. Well, without verbal questions anyway. This was just so _weird_. Jeremiah Walker was many things – stubborn, rule-oriented, and utterly devoid of a sense of humor covered a few – but cryptic was not one of them. Usually, anyway.

Something told Bullet that there would be nothing _usual_ about today.

The door that Walker opened lead into the room they used for monitoring interrogations, the two-way mirror glaring in the dim light. Bullet's frown deepened. What thehell? Walker turned and jerked his head towards the two-way, jaw set and green eyes blazing.

"We got a new arrival this mornin'. It ain't good."

Bullet was almost nervous to look. And when he did manage it, he regretted not hugging his kid before he left that morning. "Holy _balls_!"

"Watch your mouth!"

Okay, so maybe somethingwould be normal today. It wasn't often that Bullet himself forgot to mind his language around the warden. But there were at least four or five occasions per day that some of the grunts forgot to censor themselves; Walker's lectures on profanity were _legend _around the prison. Still – this warranted some swearing. There was just no way around it.

"What the hell did they _do _to him?" Bullet growled. "He's. . ."

"Poor kid's a mess," Walker finished. "I know. Formed about 0500 this morning. I can't get anythin' out of him – punk's scared of his own shadow – but I managed to get him out of my office and into someplace quieter. Problem is I _need _to do his paperwork. And I _need _someone who knows what they're doin' for that."

Bullet knew where this was going. And he did not like it.

He watched the warden carefully. Walker hadn't looked away from the glass. His eyes were still fixed on the shaking little boy. There were cogs working in that strange Texas head. And they were leading towards a conclusion. A conclusion Bullet _did not like_.

Walker turned from the small, huddled form of the ghost-child and fixed Bullet with a glare. "Get me Penelope Spectra."

"Sir?" The lieutenant's core leapt into his mouth. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"

Spectra's reputation preceded her by a wide margin. An emotiphage, a misery-sucking leech that most ghosts with a fourth of a brain avoided at all costs. She was cunning and cruel, beautiful to look at but deadly if you let her sink her claws into you. Spectra could tear the pieces of this child apart and leave nothing but a withered husk behind if she so desired. But there was no one else in the Zone who had the skills necessary to help the boy, either. _Walker _certainly wasn't qualified.

It was a risk.

Question was, was it a necessary one.

"Find Spectra. Bring her here. I don't care if you have to toss her in a sack and Shanghai her, I want the leech here _yesterday_!"

Bullet stiffened into a salute. "Yessir!"

~*O*~

everything is swirly and strange and danny's body _hurts_ but he doesn't know how to fight it because something keeps squeezing him tight, like he's trying to be pushed through a straw and his arms were all twisted, legs crunched to his chest, and he can't breathe can't breathe can't _breathe!_

he falls and lands on the ground and the squeezing stops. . .

danny lays there and he feels that he's on concrete, but that can't be right because mommy and daddy had tile on the lab floor? he's very confused and he's cold, shivering in his suit, and he so he curls in on himself and waits for everything to go back to what it was before, the screaming and the hitting and the cutting and _where's my danny?! _followed by _mommy, i'm right here, please don't!_ he tries to breathe but he can't get enough air in, his ribs hurt too bad, and he puts his fingers in his hair and pulls and rocks because sometimes that helps but he just. . . he just. .

it _hurts_.

"Take a seat."

danny's heart leaps into his throat and he jerks, body screaming at him to run, get away, _don't let him touch you_ because this isn't daddy, not mommy either. this is a different voice. deep, it barked like a dog, with a funny sort of accent that turned the edges upwards. and danny doesn't expect to see anything because he's been in the dark for so very very long but. . ..

he can _see_.

he can see he can see he can see but his eyes still hurt, still ache like there's nothing there, and everything else hurts too, and danny doesn't know what's going on. so confused. so scared. because there's a big man standing behind a desk, but it's not a man like mr. foley, who was tucker's daddy, or even mr. baxter down the street.

this man is very tall. taller than daddy. and he's _white_, white everywhere like milk danny misses milk and cookies except for his gloves and boots and hat. those are black. he's got a jacket on like what pastor jim wears during service. and his eyes keep staring but they're not like other people's eyes. they don't have pupils. they're solid green.

danny's eyes ache like they aren't there anymore and something _wet _dribbles down his cheeks and there's smoke puffing from something that the man dropped on the floor. he pants and freezes. who is this man? what was this place? because there aren't desks in the lab and mommy and daddy are gone, no more screaming, no more knives or needles and he doesn't know what's going on, can't think, what's going on?!

"I ain't gonna hurt y'all, punk. Just sit in the chair."

danny hears a sound come out of his throat and it _hurt_ and the man looks right in his eyes, and there's a something on his face that danny doesn't know what to think of, like there's something really really wrong. and something in his chest feels tight, feels wrong, and he looks down and there are _cuts _on his chest, like a letter jazzy showed him once in her big-girl books, and he can't breathe can't breathe can't breathe.

the man steps closer. closer and closer and closer and danny sees how big his hands are, like daddy's, and he _knows_ that they're going to hit him, that this is going to be just like the lab. because he's a very bad little boy and he made mommy and daddy hate him, and this is his punishment. bad little boys don't get presents, they get needles and cuts and yelling _where's my danny?! _even though danny is right here.

the man is very close.

very.

close.

don't touch –

don't hurt me don't hurt me _please _I'm sorry don't don't don't don't don't –

"Name's Walker, kid. Do y'all know where you are?"

the wheeze comes out even though danny tries to keep it in and he curls up, ready for the hit, ready for the needle and everything hurts. his body feels weird, tingly at his fingers and toes and he doesn't know why his suit is black now because it used to be white, but that was before all the ex-peer-a-mens started, so maybe that's why? can't breathe so cold wanna go home why why why –

"I'm gonna take that as a 'no.'"

danny shakes and shakes and shakes because he doesn't _mean _to be a bad boy, honest, doesn't know what he's doing wrong, just doesn't want to hurt anymore. please no more hurt. please please please, and he sucks down some air and keeps curled tight because he remembers pulling in his belly and in his chest and he remembers the _hurt_ but he can't quite remember what comes after, so maybe if he just keeps in a ball, nothing can do that no more?

"Alright, punk, I'm gonna take off my coat. And I'm gonna put it on ya. Alright? It ain't gonna hurt. I promise."

promises promises danny hears lots of promises now _i promise you will hurt i promise I will end you if you don't tell me where danny is I promise that I'll burn the lies out of you_ and all of them hurt. promises hurt and people hurt and he's so tired of hurt. just wants to be left alone. but then there's something warm around his shoulders, kind of heavy, and it smells spicy like daddy's aftershave used to. danny blinks, feels the collar, snuggles into the dark because even though it kind of scares him, all the light has made his eyes hurt. he takes a deep breath and tucks in tighter and tries to think of jazzy and bearbert einstein and the stars.

"There ya go, punk. Keep ya from bein' cold. You're so skinny, if you stood sideways and stuck out your tongue, you'd be a zipper."

the man tries to laugh but it sounds like it gets stuck in his chest. danny knows what that's like and it makes him feel bad, yucky in his tummy, and so he peeks out of the coat at the opening, keeps his fingers tight on the collar in case the man tries to take it back. something wet runs down his cheek and the man looks like he's seen something real sad.

"Alright, punk, think you can tell me your name?"

danny thinks this man, whose name is walker, might be nice but he's got a scary voice, rough like some of the cowboys on tv. he makes another noise, tries to make his throat say words, but it just _won't_ he's too scared, and his fingers tighten until his knuckles turn white like the scratchy jacket. he wants to say something. anything. see if he's dreaming because danny is a very bad boy and nice things don't happen to bad boys, no, bad things happen to bad boys and this can't be really real, can it?

the man sighs and danny knows he's waited too long and he wants to cry but there's something wrong with his eyes because he can't.

"That's okay, kid. I'm gonna step outside for a bit. Gotta talk to a couple people, but then I'll be back, and we can work on getting you talkin'. Sound like a plan?"

he doesn't know what to think because that's what daddy used to ask him before he became such a bad boy. _sound like a plan, son?_ and he can still hear daddy's laugh and mommy giggling and then they turn to screams and _where's my danny?!_ and he just can't. . . .

words are hard and his throat hurts like his bones and his eyes ache and he can't seem to breathe, can't make them take in air anymore, feels like he's swimming in sticky honey and. . .

the man stands up and danny's mind screams at him to get away, run away, he'll hurt you hurt hurt hurt and he tucks further into the coat and tries to think about happy things so his teeth will stop rattling.

sometimes danny wishes he was dead. . . .

~*O*~

Sometimes, Walker felt he underestimated Bullet's abilities.

It had only been three hours since he'd seen his lieutenant out to find the shade. But here he and his patrol were, marching in with smirks and a writhing sack between them. It was almost enough to make the warden feel a twinge of pride.

Almost.

"Alright, boys, bring her in. I'll take it from here."

Bullet grinned like a fox in a henhouse – something told him that there was a story behind Spectra's capture. But, for now, Walker settled on growling out another order and watching as the guards tossed the sack into the observation room. A string of muffled curses erupted on impact. The warden raised a brow – some of those were awful creative. His mama would've had a fit.

"Y'all can come out now. Ain't nobody here but us."

The bag writhed and thrashed until, finally, an irate shade emerged from within. Her eyes glowed bloody red, fury written in them, and the snarl curling her lips was nothing short of feral.

"What the absolute _hell_ are you doing?!" Spectra hissed. "You had no right - !"

"Actually, I have all the rights," Walker interrupted, smirking. "But I didn't drag y'all down here to throw you in my prison – though I'm pretty sure you'd deserve it, if the rumor mill is true."

The shade drew herself upright, movements reminding him somewhat of a venomous snake. Her tail lashed the air, impatient, and the ruby eyes narrowed. Shrewd, cold, calculating.

"Then why am I here, warden?" Spectra questioned. Her voice was pitched low and it dripped venom.

Walker didn't answer right away. Looking at the woman, inky black and reeking of scorn, he began questioning his earlier thinking. Spectra could tear the punk _apart_. Piece by piece until nothing was left but the shattered remains of a child. But something else niggled at the back of his mind, telling him to go with his gut.

"I need your help with somethin'," Walker grunted. "A new arrival."

The ink of Spectra's face shifted into something like a quirked eyebrow, and her grin made his insides twist uncomfortably. "Oh? And I here I thought you weren't the chivalrous sort. Gifting a lady with a meal - Good lord, Walker, what _will _the guards think of you?"

Walker ground his teeth. "Don't take this the wrong way, _Spectra_. This ain't a polite request. Yer gonna help me whether you like it or not. And you ain't gonna twist this. Got it?"

Spectra cocked her head to the side, grin dripping venom. "Oh? And how exactly are you going to _make me_, warden?"

"How's about I don't throw you in solitary for the next three thousand years?" Walker snarled. "I hear you fall apart after 'bout three days without misery – wonder what you'll look like after all that time?"

The look in Spectra's red eyes grew laser-focused. _Dangerous_. She curled her lips in a sneer, arms crossed about her chest. "_Fine_ – now what exactly do you need me for? Weasel a name out of someone, maybe? Rehabilitate a rapist?"

Okay, so he was sure that he was going to have a migraine by the end of the day. Walker jerked his head towards the two-way glass. "Not exactly. Take a looksee for yourself."

Spectra snorted and turned to look at where he'd motioned. The expression on her face froze, arms and tail stiffening in shock. Walker could practically see the goosebumps rising along the back of her neck as she stared at the little form huddled against the back wall. He couldn't really blame her; the brat was gnarly to look at.

"This is the Zone's newest arrival. Formed about five this mornin'. He's in rough shape. Couldn't even get him to tell me his name." The woman didn't say anything; Walker glanced at her before he continued. "He formed without eyes, but I think his ectoplasm filled the sockets to make some sorta pseudo-eye, 'cause he can see well enough. Poor kid's covered in scars. Some of 'em look like autopsy incisions, and I gotta sneakin' suspicion he was vivisected. Track marks on both arms. He doesn't respond well to touch – can't say I blame 'im."

He caught motion out of the corner of his eye, and the warden watched as Spectra's form rippled, leaving behind a tall woman with pale skin and bright red hair. Her face was a mask, impassive, but the eyes. . . Walker never realized the witch could have such expressive eyes. Horrified, furious, they shone livid green against her face.

"Do you know how old he is?" she questioned.

Walker shook his head. "Best guess I got is he's somewhere 'round five. Six, maybe, an' that's stretchin' it a bit."

Her hands twitched, balling into fists. "What exactly do you need me to do?"

"I need someone to at least get him talkin'. This is way beyond anythin' I've ever dealt with, an' he's my responsibility." The warden growled quietly, unable to believe he had to stoop to this. "I need _help_. An' you're my best bet for that."

"Of _course _I'm the only one in the Ghost Zone with any psychiatric experience." she muttered to herself. "How the hell could I have forgotten _that_ little tidbit of information? Goddammit, Walker, I might be a psychiatrist, but this is a whole different ball-game! Trauma like this is going to take _years_ of therapy – he might never fully recover. And I don't have any experience with this sort of thing."

A delicate hand gestured wildly towards the child, who had taken to rocking back and forth inside the safety of Walker's suit jacket. Again, Walker didn't blame her. But that didn't mean he was going to take no for an answer.

"Rule Number One: in my prison, there is no profanity," Walker barked. "You're an intelligent woman – I expect you to express yourself as such. That's you're first warnin', sugar. And you _are _gonna do this. If you don', I'll just lock you up 'til you cave."

Spectra whipped around to glare at him, green eyes flashing crimson. "Did you not listen to a damn word I just said?! _I don't have any experience with this!_ Walker, I could do more harm than good here!"

"Watch your mouth!" the warden snarled. "And you may not have any experience with this sorta damage, but you sure got a right sight more than I do as far as knowin' about what to do! So you are _going_. _to_. _help. me_."

The scowl on Spectra's face was impressive, he had to admit. Jaw clenched, eyes narrowed, the emotiphage turned to stare at the little boy once more. _Something _flitted behind her eyes, and she swallowed thickly.

"I can feel how terrified he is from here," Spectra murmured. "I thought. . . I thought that it was just some inmate that you'd browbeat."

Walker snorted in disgust. "I wish. He like to have shook himself through the floor when he first formed in my office. I ain't never seen anythin' like it."

"Who just _does _something like this do a child?"

He stared at her for a long minute. "You feed on misery, Spectra. You give people depression _for fun_."

The look she shot him could've frozen Hell thirty times over. "I might feed on misery, but I do have standards, warden. I feed on adults and teenagers, who are generally terrible and deserve everything they receive. This is just. . . sick."

Sick – that summed it up. Walker rolled his shoulders, genuinely uncomfortable under Spectra's piercing glare. He masked that cracking his knuckles and glaring right back. "Well? What'll it be, sugar? Do we got a deal?"

Her glare intensified, but the red-head stuck her hand out for him to shake. "Deal. But _don't _call me that."

Walker shook her hand, struggling a bit to mask his shock. For all her reputation, he'd kinda thought that the feared Penelope Spectra would be this vicious, larger than life shade. But she wasn't. Compared to him, she felt almost fragile, delicate hands dwarfed in comparison to his own despite their firm grip.

"So, when do you wanna start with 'im, _sugar_?" The scowl that crossed Spectra's face was more of a snarl, and Walker would've been impressed if it hadn't been directed towards him. "Rule Number Two: in my prison, I'll call you whatever I so well please."

Her eyes flashed crimson for a moment, then faded back to their normal green. "You are an absolute _jackass_!" she hissed. "I'm going to go in and assess him. Stay here. Stay quiet. Stay out of my way."

Spectra pushed her way past him, shoulder bashing roughly into the crook of his elbow. Walker sneered – the top of her head barely brushed the point of his shoulder. But here she was, pushing him around and thinking to order him about in _his _prison. That was against The Rules. He'd have to correct that.

The door to the interrogation room opened, and Spectra entered quietly.

Later. . . he'd correct her later.

The boy jerked upright when he heard the hinges creak, white hair flying in his scarred face. Walker hadn't flipped on the speaker, but he could practically hear the child start to panic. His skinny chest heaved beneath that torn jumpsuit, so hard that some of the scars along his side tore open and wept ectoplasm. The boy scrambled until his back was pressed to the far wall, ravaged face contorted in absolute terror.

For her part, Spectra remained perfectly collected as she shut the door behind her. The boy whimpered, every inch of him trembling. But still Spectra was calm. Her expression was placid, almost pleasant, and she very pointedly sat against the wall furthest from the child. It was strange, seeing the woman often considered the scourge of the Zone curled on a concrete floor, but the minute she sat, the boy relaxed slightly. Walker made note of that.

Staying on the punk's level calmed him down.

"Hi." Spectra's voice was soft, calm and soothing. "My name's Penelope. Can you tell me yours?"

The boy cocked his head to the side, movements slow, cautious, like he expected her to come at him at any moment. But he relaxed just a tad – his back wasn't pressed so fully against the wall. He blinked. Spectra smiled.

"I'm not going to hurt you, sweetie. No one here is going to hurt you."

The child shivered, curling in on himself. "Please, don't. 'm sorry."

It sounded like the kid had screamed himself hoarse, voice a pitiful, raw whisper.

Walker had to force himself not to put his fist through the wall, teeth clenching and pressure climbing in his skull. Kids shouldn't sound like prisoners of war. He watched Spectra's reaction closely, curious as to how she'd handle it. There was the slightest tension in her lower jaw, and her fingers twitched. But she remained composed, face calm.

"No, honey. No one here will hurt you. Do you know where you are?"

Slowly, oh so _very_ slowly, the boy shook his head. Penelope's smile widened and she continued.

"You're in a place called the Ghost Zone. This is. . . well, this is a facility run by a man named Walker. Do you remember Walker?" The boy nodded. "Good. Now, do you know why I've come to talk to you?"

The boy, who had been relaxing at a snail's pace as Penelope talked, shook his head again. He shuffled just the tiniest bit towards the red-head, and Walker got the distinct impression that, had there been eyes in his sockets, they would've been fixed firmly on her.

"I'm what's called a psychiatrist, sweetie. That's a doctor that helps people when they have problems in their mind, like what happens after something very bad happens to them. Walker called me because he thought you needed a little bit of help. Is that ok?"

Damn - for a misery-sucking leech, she was awfully good with kids.

Walker crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes at the scene. The little punk was fixated on Penelope, expression hidden behind that thick mop of white hair. He'd managed to relax. Slowly, the boy nodded again, a tiny jerking motion.

Another note – simple yes or no questions worked best.

"Good. I'm going to ask you a couple of questions. They're not hard questions, so don't worry. Is that ok?"

Again, the child nodded, and he shuffled just a tad closer to Spectra as she spoke. Walker caught sight of his bony fingers toying with the collar of his jacket, rubbing along the crease like it was a security blanket. Had his hair not been so dirty, the warden would've been hard-pressed to see much of the punk besides his eyes. Or, pseudo-eyes.

As he watched, droplets of ectoplasm wept down the child's thin cheeks. Walker's jaw tightened again.

"Alright, sweetie, the first question should be pretty easy. Can you tell me your name?"

Something flitted across the child's face, there and gone before Walker (or Penelope, he reasoned) could decipher what it was. He started trembling again, delving deeper into the coat. But he didn't retreat to the wall. He didn't take his gaze off the psychiatrist. They sat in the quiet for several long seconds. So long that Walker wondered what exactly Spectra was planning on doing if the kid wouldn't answer. Then. . .

The boy opened his mouth and rasped, "Danny. . .."

~*O*~

The interrogation room was cold as tits, her ass was going numb from sitting on the floor, and Penelope Spectra had never been so disgusted with humanity in her afterlife.

_Help me with the kid, he says. I'll throw you in solitary for a thousand if you don't, he says. Fuck you, Walker, you absolute prick._

Penelope didn't let any of this show on her face, though. Nearly sixty years of practice saw to that. Besides, she honestly didn't know if the poor kid could handle any sort of negative feedback at this point. He was too fragile.

The child – Danny, her mind supplied – watched her carefully. He stayed hunched over on himself; however, he had relaxed over the course of their conversation. Still, Penelope couldn't help the goosebumps that ran over her arms and up her neck. Those eyes were so. . . _unsettling_. Because they weren't eyes, per-say. They were just pits. Sunken, horrifying pits that dripped livid green ectoplasm over his jagged cheekbones. Just staring at her.

_Incision scars along the torso, Y-shaped – indication of peri-mortem vivisection. Multiple incisions into the orbicularis oculi and the palpebrae. Tremors indicative of long-term drug usage. _Penelope categorized, trying to remain clinical and not think about the terror rolling off the child in thick waves. She could taste Pop Rocks on her tongue. _Multiple indicators of abuse and starvation. Experimentation likely. . . _

Penelope smiled gently at the little boy. "Danny, can you tell me how old you are?"

He startled, a soft squeak erupting from his throat as he tried to bury himself in Walker's thick coat.

_Signs of auditory triggering, likely kept in solitude or interrogated for long periods. . .._

"I won't hurt you, sweetie," she soothed, voice quiet. "You don't have to answer if you don't want to."

Walker had been right. The force of his tremors was concerning, and she questioned how much control he had over his own ghost abilities at this point. New arrivals were notoriously bad at maintaining control in high-stress situations. But the little boy surprised her again. He swallowed, peeping out from the safety of the coat, and managed to rasp out a timid answer.

"Four."

_Signs of verbal decline and – _

Penelope felt her mind go blank.

"Four?" she parroted, mouth dry.

Danny nodded once, motion rusty as though he'd forgotten how to do it, and Penelope had to swallow down bile at the unexpected response. Of all the _gutless_, _brutal, sadistic __**bullshit**_. . .

Penelope knew she was a bitch and a liar and what many of her colleagues would diagnose as a clinical sociopath (which was wrong – she was capable of empathy, just didn't have any use for it most of the time) but this was something else entirely. She'd seen broken. Hell, she'd _made _broken. Vlad Masters was walking, talking proof of that. But there were fucking _lines_ that one simply _did not cross, _and this was fucking one of them.

Because this? This was the systematic torture, abuse, and murder of a goddamn four-year-old and, frankly, she had no fucking clue where to even start.

Her smile felt like she had fish-hooks shoved in the corners of her mouth, pulling and tearing and stretching her at the seams. So taut it could snap and bleed at any moment. Penelope took a deep breath through her nose, twisting at her fingers to keep them from balling in her lap.

"You're an awfully big boy," she soothed. "Do you know when your next birthday is?"

Danny's little white head – all sharp bones and gaping eye sockets – poked fully out of the coat collar. He blinked. Once, twice, staring almost like he couldn't believe she was _talking _to him. She'd seen how he had flinched at noise any louder than a whisper. He'd likely been screamed at for so long it was foreign to have someone speak to him rather than at him.

Still, his little fingers grasped the collar tight, thin face working itself into a frown. He looked back up at her again, throat working for a few minutes as he tried to find words. If there was one thing Penelope had learned in her time as a psychiatrist – misery-inducing one or no – it was patience. Good things came to those who wait. So she waited, coaxing the child with a gentle smile and mentally groaning over how numb her ass had grown.

"M-m-May," Danny rasped out.

"Your birthday's in May?" Penelope repeated, core sinking into her gut.

Danny nodded, once again short and shaky. She reassured him quietly, and it suddenly occurred to her how close the little boy had gotten. She'd been so focused on how fucked-up this child's whole situation was, she hadn't paid attention to the fact that he'd been moving towards her. Frankly, it nearly gave her a heart-attack when she realized Danny had gotten practically nose-to-nose with her. This close, she could see patterns in the ectoplasm that had formed his eyes. Bright green, abnormally so, with little swirls of electric blue here and there. Like veins of lightning.

Penelope didn't move. Didn't speak. Just sat still and smiled, watching to see what the tiny ghost would do. Little fingers reached out and poked her gently on the cheek. A shiver ran down her spine; sweet hell, the kid was _freezing_! His expression morphed. The terror fell back a notch, replaced by something akin to wonder.

"Real?" he whispered.

God, how hard did one have to scream to have a voice that damaged? Penelope tilted her head to the side, very slowly, and asked, "What do you mean, sweetie?"

Danny's lower lip trembled, and a little hand pressed fully to her cheek. "You real? No dream?"

Her core froze.

_Holy shit. . .._

"No, sweetie," she managed to squeak out. "I'm not a dream. You're safe now. No one else is going to hurt you."

The broken, emaciated little ghost let out a raspy wail, and Penelope didn't have time to brace herself before he was wrapped tightly about her. She held grasped him to her on instinct, mind a curious blank. He shook and hiccoughed, thin face buried in the crook of her neck. She could feel every single bone his new body had formed, likely mimicking how his original body had been before death. His vertebrae dug into her palm.

"No dream!" he chanted, audibly relieved. "No dream, no dream, no dream!"

Slowly, Penelope cupped a hand to the back of the child's fluffy little head. His hair was brittle – malnutrition symptoms – but still thick. She rocked side-to-side, gently shushing him, and pressed her cheek to the side of his face.

"Shhh, sweetie. It's alright. I've got you. Everything's just fine."

The door opened to her right. Walker stood there, rage rolling off his bulky frame, and jaw taut. All she could taste was charred meat and iron.

"You're going to be just fine. . ."

~*O*~

**A/N: dId YOU mIsS mE?!**

**Hello once again, phandom, I come bearing gifts of gore and various headcanons about ghosts!**

**Now, this story definitely doesn't fall into any of the other Danny Phantom fics I've written over the past couple of years. For one, it's got more actual words in it. But besides that, I've developed two distinct Danny Phantom universes - both are probably AU. Fucking sue me. **

**This particular fic falls into the universe where ghosts are actually dead people. Walker - who will have a FIRST NAME, GODDAMMIT BUTCH! - was once a Texas Ranger. Spectra was an actual psychiatrist. A good one, with like awards and shit. We'll touch further on this later, but you need to know she's not a complete cunt-waffle in this story. She's a bitch, sure. But like an understandable, somewhat likeable amount of bitch. Danny is adorable.**

**And not all the ghosts are cockwaffles. **

**Except Prince Aragon. . . fuck that guy.**

**Anyway, if you're still with me at this point, thank you so very very much, and I hope to see you in the next chapter! Please leave me a comment - constructive criticism, praise, disgust, anything really! - in that magic box below. Until next time. . . **

**BlackRosePoetry**


	2. Chapter 2

~*O*~

danny keeps himself wrapped in the coat and tries to breathe but his lungs won't work right.

the room is cold and his bones ache like his tummy does he hasn't eaten mommy i'm hungry but he still can't make his throat hurt. words are _hard_ because mommy and daddy got really mad when he tried to talk and danny is scared to say anything anymore, and now they get all jumbly in his head. it's like that time when jazzy accidentally broke his speak n' spell and it said everything backwards. he misses jazzy, misses her hugs and how she shared her cookies sometimes, and he really wishes that bear aldrin and bearbert einstein were here because they'd keep him safe, keep people from yelling and. . .

the door opens and someone walks in and danny's brain screams _danger_.

he shakes and shakes and buries himself in the coat and he knows that they've come to take him, come to hurt him, and he's going to go back to the lab where mommy will scream at him _where is my baby, my danny, tell me you liar!_ and all he can see is black, and he can _feel _the straps dig into his arms so he squeezes his knees tighter to his chest just to make sure they still listen and. . .

"Hey, punk, it's just me. Ain't nothin' here gonna hurt you."

danny knows that voice. it's the scary man, walker, who gave him the jacket. he really likes the jacket because it's warm and he can hide and the lights are making his eyes hurt danny can't see his eyes are open but he can't see so he hopes that mr. walker doesn't ask for it back. he tries to take a deep breath and stop shaking. it doesn't work, but he looks out to see anyway.

mr. walker is very very tall, and his face kind of looks like a skull and danny doesn't _mean _to squeak when he sees him so close, but it happens _anyway _and danny waits for it, waits for the yelling and the cutting and he thinks that mommy will come through the door at any minute and she's gonna take him _back _because he's a very bad boy and very bad boys don't deserve to have nice things happen to them. . .

"Alright, little man, we got another room for you to sit in. It's a bit quieter than this 'un. Is it ok if I pick you up?"

pick. . . pick him up?

danny remembers what it was like before the lab, but only in bits in pieces because mommy's ex-peer-a-mens make his head go fuzzy sometimes. he remembers what it was like to ride on daddy's shoulders and snuggle against mommy's chest and sometimes even jazzy would try and pick him up, but jazzy is small like him and can't always do it. but this is confusing, can't think, and danny frowns and holds the coat tighter because the coat is nice. he and the coat are buds and mr. walker can't have it back.

danny curls up and he knows that mr. walker will pick him up even if he doesn't want to be picked up, so he nods, and waits and his body shakes so hard that his teeth chatter together, which isn't good, danny knows, but he's trying. he just hopes mr. walker doesn't get mad. he doesn't like yelling because yelling is loud and it happens before the hurt and danny _really _doesn't like the hurt anymore and. . .

"Kiddo, you don't have to let me pick you up if you don't want me to. Y'all wanna walk instead? It ain't far."

walk? he hasn't gotten to walk in so long, doesn't know if his legs still know how to do it, but walking means no touching and no touching means no hurt so danny pulls his buddy the coat tighter and tries to stand.

except his legs shake and shake and _shake_ and there's an ache deep in his bones, shoots all the way down to his knees, and it's almost as bad as the ache in his eyes, so when danny swallows it feels like that time tucker dared him to eat sand and it _hurts_. hurts hurts hurts hurts and he tries to take a step and he _falls _and –

"Woah!"

someone _touches him_.

big hands on his throat and there's a knife that mommy calls a "skal-pull" digging into his shoulder and danny wants to cry but he can't because he can't breathe can't breathe can't breathe and why is there green everywhere? daddy's gonna kill him and mommy keeps crying keeps yelling and he doesn't know why why why he's right here, mommy, I'm danny, not lying please stop stop stop stop stop it hurts please no hurts

danny tries to make the air go in his lungs and they won't listen and his body shakes and he's trying to hide, wants to get away get away get away but he can't move, too scared, so he pulls the coat around him and waits for the hurt and the green and the yelling.

except it doesn't happen. the hands stay on his ribs and they're very very big but they don't _hurt_, just hold, and then they set him back on the floor, and danny tries to breathe, tries to suck in some air, but his body just keeps shaking and he thinks he's trying to cry but it doesn't feel right even though there's something sticky running down his cheeks. so instead he just rocks in the coat and tries to think about happy things.

jazzy and bearbert einstein and stars and astronauts and chocolate chunk cookies.

blankies and milk and cartoons and playing in the park with tucker and playing space-man and –

he'd just wanted to play with the big-boy guns and he knew that good boys didn't play in the lab but they were _right there_ and he knows how to put on his suit, even though daddy's face fell off, so he does and he looks for the big 'zooka that mommy likes so much so he can kill the aliens, except there's a big hole in the wall and he doesn't know what it does and he sees a button, pretty red and he _presses it _and everything goes white and hurts hurts hurts mommy where are you?

"Easy, punk. I gotcha. You're ok. We're gonna go someplace quiet, 'kay? Ain't no one gonna hurt you here."

mr. walker picks him up again but it doesn't hurt except for in his heart so danny doesn't try to fight, just holds tight to his new best friend, and hides in the dark with the spicy smell and tries to figure out why it feels like his chest is full of honey, why he can't feel his heart beating, why his bones hurt, why why why?

and then the next thing danny knows he's in another room and it's quiet, so he rocks back and forth and tries to make his lungs work again. they don't but he's trying. he wishes jazzy was here, wishes his sissy was here to give him kisses and make him better, and he wonders if jazzy thinks he's a bad boy too because if she does, it'll be the saddest thing ever. there's more sticky stuff on his cheeks and he's so _cold_ but it's a different kind of cold than what he's used to, like a big ball of ice in his tummy, and danny doesn't know what to do. why is he here? where is here? more needles? more skaal-pull's? more yelling? doesn't know, can't think, can't breathe, there's a big cut on his chest and it itches and there's more on his ribs and they hurt and oh, no, he's shaking again, a funny buzzing in his tummy next to the big ice-ball.

the door opens and danny gasps and hides as best he can, tries to push through the wall.

except he can't because it's a _wall_ and he's _small_ and everything hurts and is this the end? is this where it all comes back? the yelling yelling yelling and the green and the cold and the nasty smell and –

danny looks up and it's not his mommy, not his daddy, not mr. walker. but a lady. she's different, he can tell, looks kind of like ms. spelka at his preschool classes except she wears red instead of blue and her eyes are green like mr. walker's. except this lady looks like a people-person, someone he would see at the grocery store with mommy, and she's got _red hair_ and it makes his chest ache.

he misses jazzy lots.

"Hi. My name's Penelope. Can you tell me yours?"

she's got a pretty name and she talks real quiet so danny isn't scared, so he peeks out of his safetydarkfriend hiding place and looks because the coat will keep him safe. it has so far. pen-el-ope, he thinks, is super long, but there's a girl in his pre-school that's got the same name and they call her penny so that's what danny's gonna call this lady. danny blinks and the lady smiles and something in his head tells him that she's safe, she's friend, no hurt here.

"I'm not going to hurt you, sweetie. No one is going to hurt you."

there's no _I promise_ there but danny can hear it, just under the nice-ness, and he whimpers because promises mean hurt and he forces his throat to work and says, _please don't 'm sorry_ and he thinks he's made a mistake because talking means yelling, cutting, hitting, more needles –

something on penny's face changes, her smile sad, but there's no yelling. no screaming. he wants to cry because he's a very bad boy and this has to be a dream because bad boys don't have nice things happen and this lady is certainly nice, she looks too much like jazzy not to be and. . .

"No, honey. No one here will hurt you. Do you know where you are?"

this is a trick. a trick a trick a trickety trick and danny is not stupid, knows that he shouldn't fall for it, but she's so nice and her voice is very soft and she's letting him _answer_ and there are no tables-needles-knives-bighands here so danny makes his neck move. back and forth and back again. hair waves in front of his eyes and it's _white _and that's not right because he's got dark hair like daddy? but the lady's smile widens, and he relaxes a bit even though the warning sirens are screaming _danger!_

"You're in a place called the Ghost Zone. This is. . . well, this is a facility run by a man named Walker. Do you remember Walker?"

walker – big man, black gloves, white skin, skull, funny voice. danny knows things, yeah, so he nods and she _answers him_ –

"Good. Now, do you know why I've come to talk to you?"

no, danny doesn't know anything, doesn't know why anyone is here, why he's in this place instead of on the table so he shakes again, and it's like his neck doesn't remember how to do things anymore. it's like his body doesn't know how to do _anything _anymore and he wonders if he'll ever be able to play again, if he could ride a bike or watch cartoons with his legs over his head or play spaceman

he wants to play spaceman wants to use the big-boy 'zooka presses the button and everything's green and he _screams_

"I'm what's called a psychiatrist, sweetie. That's a doctor that helps people when they have problems in their mind, like what happens after something very bad happens to them. Walker called me because he thought you needed a little bit of help. Is that ok?"

oh. does this mean she can make his thoughts less jumbly, less scary, less runny? because that would be wonderful, would mean he can sleep again and not have nightmares. except. . .. is this even real? danny doesn't think it is because this has happened before, when mommy and daddy put needles in his arms and put lots of medicine in them and he'd fallen asleep, dreaming dreams that were so real he thought they were _real_, thought it was _over_, and then he'd woken up and the hurt had been _worse_.

he nods anyway.

the lady, penny, is very nice he thinks. because she doesn't get mad because he doesn't answer right away, doesn't get mad because he shakes and he squeaks and everything is hidden behind the coat. instead she smiles and danny thinks that it's a pretty sort of smile.

"Good. I'm going to ask you a couple of questions. They're not hard questions, so don't worry. Is that ok?"

not hard. not hard questions.

doesn't she know all questions are hard questions?

danny nods again, and he feels his legs moving, creeping underneath him, and his knees hurt. he rubs the edge of the collar with his fingers and the itching makes him a little less scared, a little less nervous, but these are _questions_ and danny doesn't know. . .

I'm danny, mommy, please no, I'm telling the truth, I'm sorry sorry sorry please don't mommy that hurts!

"Alright, sweetie, the first question should be pretty easy. Can you tell me your name?"

his name? danny knows his name. daniel james fenton, after mommy's grampa and daddy's favorite uncle. except he doesn't think his throat will make that many words, doesn't know if he can make that much noise without being punished again, without being sent back to the lab, the table, the needles. and his throat still feels like he's been eating sand so he thinks that it'll hurt real bad when he talks. but miss penny has been really really nice and it's just his name, not hard at all, so danny pulls the coat tight and tries to be brave like batman and says _danny. . .._

there's something real sad in miss penny's eyes and it makes his tummy feel yucky, like he'd been caught with cookies from the jar or with his body in the portal when he accidentally ripped bearbert. danny makes his knees work again, feels the bones click, feels the buzzing in his tummy move to his chest, vibrating behind the itchy scar and maybe this isn't a dream? because he feels things here and in the dreams he didn't really _feel_ but mommy made lots of promises that still play around in his head, so danny doesn't want to trust it.

"Danny, can you tell me how old you are?"

he isn't expecting that and he makes a noise again and he shakes and he's _sorry_, but ms. penny just keeps smiling like mommy or mrs. foley used to, patient is what jazzy calls it, and she doesn't yell even though he keeps thinking she's going to. the shaking keeps happening even though it makes his teeth rattle and his bones shake and he pulls the coat further over him because it'll keep him safe, nice and quiet, spicy and warm unlike the ice sitting in his tummy and. . .

"I won't hurt you, sweetie. You don't have to answer if you don't want to."

how old is he?

he tries to remember but his numbers feel all rusty and broken at the edges, like they're caught in a trap, and it takes a second to get them up. they taste wrong, like pennies, but then he remembers jazzy teaching him all about numbers while mommy and daddy worked in the lab, remembers the count on sesame street that helped him even though he was kinda scary.

danny swallows. more courage. and he says _four. . . _

there's another something on ms. penny's face and danny doesn't like it, makes his heart ache because she looks very very sad and he doesn't _mean _to make people sad, or mad, honest, doesn't mean to be a very bad little boy. he wants to make her feel better, but he's still not sure if she's really real or not. his brain likes to play tricks sometimes when the yelling isn't so loud, and this is the quietest it's been in a very long time.

he scoots closer, closer, and he thinks that ms. penny might stop him but she doesn't.

"Four?"

she says it like a question, like she's got to ask, and danny makes his head nod even though it aches all over and his muscles feel like they're filled with rocks. and the something comes back again, stronger, and it looks like she can't decide to be sad or mad or sadmad, and danny really hopes ms. penny will stay nice, that she won't be a dream, because he doesn't know what he'll do if he wakes up with straps-needles-knives-yelling again.

then ms. penny takes a deep breath through her nose like dr. studwell used to make him do and her smile comes back and danny _dares_ himself to hope, to touch, to make sure. he's a very bad little boy, but maybe because he's trying so hard they'll be nice? he's scared and he doesn't want to be alone anymore, doesn't want anymore hurt, but what if? what if what if what if?

"You're an awfully big boy. Do you know when your next birthday is?"

birthday. birthday!

danny knows that! it's the day he gets cake and astronauts and party decorations, balloons and tucker and jazzy giving him kisses, and he even gets _presents_ that he can open at the kitchen table,mommy and daddy don't go to the lab - !

he's strapped to a table and the lab is cold and mommy is screaming and daddy is hitting and he wants it to stop stop stop wants to die can't handle it mommy I'm sorry please don't

danny swallows, blinks. his eyes are aching, burning, and his mouth is filled with chalk but he remembers his birthday, and ms. spectra asked _so_ nicely, so he's going to answer even if he stammers out _M-m-May_.

"Your birthday's in May?"

another nod that makes his head feel like it will fall off. danny gets closer. closer, closer, closer even though his mind is screaming at him _run-getaway-gonnahurt-danger_ because he NEEDS to know that this isn't a dream, that he might be a bad boy but that something good is happening because he can't. . . he _can't go back_, won't go back, never ever not ever. and he thinks he might have gotten too close because ms. penny looks a little scared when she looks him in the eyes, like there's something wrong, and he wants to hide in his buddy the coat again.

then her eyes are soft again and she smiles at him, then frowns like she's curious, like jazzy used to, and danny thinks he might cry again because he thinks she even _smells _like jazzy a little, raspberries and cream, and he reaches out and . . .

he _touches her_.

his finger touches a cheek and it's warm and it's soft and it doesn't go through her and danny doesn't know what to think, what to feel, how? why? because she's _real?_

and ms. penny looks confused, eyebrows in a line over her eyes, and she asks him another question and this time the promises _didn't hurt_ because these questions _are _easy.

"What do you mean, sweetie?"

danny can feel himself trembling, his lower lip quivering, and he wonders if jazzy would call him a baby or if she'd let him sleep in her bed because he had a nightmare but he doesn't want to ruin this so he has to ask again and even though it hurts he says _you real? no dream?_

his tummy goes queasy again because ms. penny looks like she's gonna cry too and danny doesn't want that, he's sorry, she's so nice, didn't mean to make her cry. but she's so warm and he's got his whole hand pressed against the side of her cheek and he wonders if he'll ever be this warm again.

"No, sweetie. I'm not a dream. You're safe now. No one else is going to hurt you."

and danny can't help it.

he just. . .

he _can't_. . .

he's shaking and he's cold and he's _so tired of the hurt_ and he throws himself at ms. penny and squeezes her tight even though his arms are filled with rocks and his chest hurts and everything is upside down on its head. because _you real, you real, you real!_

she's warm and she's soft and she smells like jazzy even though her hair is too bright and ms. penny hugs him back, gentle, and she rocks him and bad little boys don't _deserve _to be this happy, but danny can't care because _you real, you real, you real! _and she presses her cheek against his and that's finally warm too, a hand against the back of his head. the something sticky is still on his cheeks but ms. penny doesn't seem to mind, not in the slightest, and her voice is very quiet when she talks against his ear.

"Shhh, sweetie. It's alright. I've got you. Everything's just fine."

danny wants to believe her. really, he does. he's so very very tired of hurt.

_what have you done with my danny, ghost? where's my boy where's my danny you're a liar and then cutting pain pain pain mommy I'm sorry!_

but. . .

"You're going to be just fine."

danny buries himself against her throat, clutches her until his fingers ache, and cries until he sleeps.

~*O*~

There were exactly two whole people in the entire Ghost Zone allowed to call Jeremiah Walker by his first name. The first person was Clockwork, if only because the sonuva gun was too strong for the warden to really argue against. He'd learned that the hard way his first couple months in the Zone – being stuck in a time-loop where you're getting punched again and again for three hours would make a message sink in.

The second person was Bullet, who had earned that right and was the closest thing Walker had to a friend since landing himself in this godforsaken nightmare. And there were still rules for _when _Bullet was allowed to address him so familiarly.

The point was, Walker did not let anyone address him by his first name. Ever.

"Jeremiah Walker, you better damn well listen to me!"

. . . except Spectra couldn't seem to take the hint.

It had taken nearly _two hours_ to calm the little punk down from his panic, and he'd clung to the shade like a life-line throughout it. Surprisingly enough, Spectra had been incredibly patient throughout it, rocking him like she knew something and hushing out a load of reassurances that, admittedly, Walker didn't know they could keep up with. The Zone was a dangerous place. Black holes, Beast-ghosts, ecto-storms, criminals. You name it, it could happen, and he _did not_ like making promises that he could not keep. It was a Rule.

But once the little brat had fallen asleep, still wrapped in his jacket (he'd have to get rid of it, too many ectoplasm stains) she'd gone and rounded on him.

And she hadn't _shut up _since.

"Watch yer mouth!" Walker snarled. "I ain't gonna tell you again! You're a smart woman, and I know you hold a conversation without profanity, so you'd better get yerself together 'fore I change my mind and lock y'all in solitary!"

Spectra's eyes flashed crimson again, and it came close to startling him when the emotiphage found it prudent to invade his personal space. She had to stand on tippy-toes to do it, but there was something about the look she shot him that was unsettling. A type of fury he was hard-pressed to deal with.

"I'll watch my goddamn mouth when _you _start listening to what I'm fucking telling you instead of acting like some disinterested cowboy fuckwit!" she hissed. "Danny can't stay here. He can't stay at my lair, either. It's too loud, too close to Ember's concert hall, and, frankly, I'd rather not let Bertrand get within a hundred feet of him. So, you've got exactly two options. First option: he lives in your lair and I stay with him until he's better or at least self-sustainable. Second option: you toss him out onto his PTSD riddled, half-dissected ass and that sweet little boy gets eaten alive in a minute. Your. Damn. _Choice_!"

Walker heard Bullet choke from somewhere behind him, and it was a miracle that the tension in his jaw hadn't shattered his teeth. He'd spent nearly eighty years as Warden of the Ghost Zone and not one time had anyone possessed the _gall_ to talk to him like that. He didn't know whether to be infuriated or impressed.

Naturally, Walker chose the former.

He slammed a hand into the paneling beside Spectra's head, relishing the way she jumped in shock. Walker was a large man – as in life so in death – and his bulk was advantageous in situations like this. Looming over her, eyes narrowed, he leaned in even closer, crowding the petite woman until she was huddled against his office wall. Some people called intimidation tactics cowardly, old-fashioned, misogynistic.

Jeremiah Walker called them _effective_. . .

"I've just about had enough of that _mouth _of yours," he growled quietly. "And if y'all weren't the only thing keepin' that little boy t'gether, I'd 've had Bullet throw your skinny rear in solitary 'bout twenty minutes ago. But, see, we've both had a long day, 'n I'm feelin' generous. So I'm gon' give you one more warning. _Watch. your. mouth_. Or I might jus' forget our little deal and try to help the little punk m'self. Got me?"

Walker had seen Spectra angry on a number of occasions over the years. Always from a distance, never up-close and personal. But he'd figured that she had a wicked temper and the tongue to back it up. He was right.

But he didn't think he'd ever seen her _quite _this mad. At anyone. _Ever_.

And this was coming from a man who'd had her hog-tied and thrown in a burlap sack.

Spectra was shaking, high spots of color on her pale cheeks, and he was pretty sure that her stare alone could've caused a church to spontaneously combust. There were a couple of guards making bets. He'd heard Benson put twenty on the slippery little harlot. Thankfully, though, McCane retaliated with forty on the boss. Walker filed Benson's miniature treachery away for a later time and quirked an eyebrow at the woman he'd cornered.

"Well?" the warden drawled. "Y'all gonna answer me?"

Cords popped in Spectra's neck where her teeth were gritted, he could see a vein pulsing in her right temple. Wow, so maybe the stereotype about red-heads was true. . .

"_Fine_." The snarl that erupted from her was practically demonic. "I will watch my mouth, _Warden_. But I'm telling you right now, that little boy _needs _a quiet, stable place to live. _You _are the only one who can give him that. And if you're not willing to do that for him, I might as well walk out the door right now."

Well, if this one didn't have some pepper in her grits.

Walker stared at her for a long minute. Penelope Spectra was notoriously narcissistic, self- absorbed to a fault. There had to be an ulterior motive here other than blackmail. She was too adamant, too _focused_ for it to be anything else. It probably had something to do with sucking all the misery she possibly could outta the little punk. But he'd gone and wedged himself between a rock and a hard place.

So he'd deal with that later.

Leaning back a fair distance, the warden crossed his thick arms behind his back, standing tall. "Fine. The boy can stay at my place until he's able to fend for himself. I've gotta spare room – kinda small, but 'm guessin' he don't need much space."

Spectra's entire body was still taut as a bow-string, and he could see the lingering rage glaring out at him from her eyes. But she managed to answer cordially. Without swears. So Walker considered it a small battle won.

"It shouldn't be a problem unless he has a claustrophobia trigger, which I highly doubt given that he's chosen to hide in your coat for most of the time." She stole a glance at Danny, who was still sleeping on the couch Walker kept in his office. "I'll need full access to him. He seems to trust me the most at this point, and I don't want to compromise that this early on."

"What do y'all mean by that?"

"Just what it sounds like: _full access_. I'll need to be able to reach him at any point during the day or night, no matter where you may be at the time. He's too fragile for anything less, and we don't know what could set off a panic attack."

Walker sighed and scrubbed at his face. "You wan' a key to my house."

"No," Spectra denied, shaking her head. "I'm saying that I'm going to _live _at your house until Danny is stable enough to not need me there."

It was a knee-jerk response. "No. Ain't nobody livin' in my house but me an' the brat. Y'all can have a key, but you ain't gonna live with me."

That look came back, full-throttle and burning, and Walker chastised himself for bringing her in for quite possibly the hundredth time that day. "You can moan and complain all you want, Tex. I'm _staying _with Danny, which mean I'm _living _with you. Deal with it."

He could hear the murmurs at the door get louder, more animated. Benson put another twenty on Spectra. Bullet and McCane pooled up to put thirty on him. Walker ground his teeth together – he'd have to go over the Rule on gambling again at tomorrow's staff meeting. Which was being moved up to 0500. _Immediately_.

"Rule Number Three: no one orders _me _around in _my _prison," Walker barked. "I'm tellin' you, it ain't happenin'! So y'all better figure out somethin' else to do 'fore my patience wears thin!"

"Of all the _stubborn. . . !_" Spectra threw up her hands and growled out something Walker couldn't make out, a sort of choke-off German sound. "How in the absolute _hell_ does anyone work for you?! I'm _not _going to just kow-tow to you, Walker, so you might as well get this little tidbit through your thick skull: _I'm not leaving Danny_! You want to help him?! Then shove that idiotic Texas pride somewhere deep down where I can't see it and _listen to me when I tell you something!_"

It went quiet.

Very quiet.

Walker looked down at the finger Spectra had pushed into his chest, then back up at the woman it was connected to. She was panting hard, eyes a lurid shade of red, and the frustration on her face was almost tangible. Thick veins of black spider-webbed across her cheeks, down her throat, disappearing into the collar of her shirt and reappearing along her wrists. She trembled head-to-foot. Whether it was from pent-up frustration or nerves, he couldn't decide.

"You're somethin' else, you know?" Walker muttered softly. "Alright, fine. You can stay at my place until the punk isn't a nervous wreck anymore. But there are Rules in my house and you _will _follow them if you want to keep your sorry rear out of prison, ya hear?"

As she calmed down, the veins began to recede. Within a few moments, a pale, vaguely-annoyed Penelope Spectra stood in front of him. Her jaw was set, and he glanced down to see her hands shaking before she began twisting her left ring-finger.

Interesting. . .

"Whatever you say, Tex," she huffed. "We'd probably better go soon. The trip over there would probably terrify Danny more than just waking up in a new room. And he needs food, new clothes, and a bath."

Walker nodded.

"Bullet!" he barked. "You think you can get your hands on somethin' that'll fit the kid?"

His lieutenant, who had been watching their exchange with an open mouth and shocked eyes, shook himself out of his stupor. He drew upright, nodding. "Sure thing, boss. I'm sure the missus kept some of Tommy's old baby clothes. I'll be able to find somethin' that fits."

"Good. Get 'em an' meet me at my place, soon as ya can. Bring a couple outfits, some shoes, too, if ya got 'em."

Bullet saluted and rushed off without another word. Walker turned his attention to Benson and McCane. Both guards went still, likely coming to the sudden realization that their boss had heard every word they'd exchanged in the past several minutes. McCane grew stiff, posture perfect and jaw clenched. Benson had the decency to look ashamed.

Even though he'd won his bet.

"Benson, you're on latrine duty for the next month," the warden crooned lazily. "McCane, I want you to go up and tell Lieutenant Howard he's in charge for the rest of the day. Bullet will be taking over PT and runnin' the prison for the next couple weeks. Understand?"

Both men snapped out a salute. "Sir!"

They scrambled to get out the door before Walker could come up with a worse punishment.

Although, Bullet was _infamously _creative when it came to running PT drills. . .

The room was quiet again. On the couch, Danny let out a whimper in his sleep, tiny body curling tighter until all that could be seen was his fluffy white hair, still matted with dirt and ectoplasm. Spectra took a break from glaring daggers at him to glance at the little boy. Her expression softened just the tiniest bit, barely discernible if one wasn't looking.

"C'mon, then, sugar," Walker sighed. "We'd better head that way. Way I see it, kid's had too much happen to sleep for very long. An' I don' wan' 'im panickin' because we couldn' get it in gear."

If he could bottle that glare, it'd be the most effective riot-deterrent the Zone had ever seen. Spectra pushed past him, and he was again struck by how much _smaller_ the shade was than him. For someone with such a big personality, she was pretty dang petite. Walker quirked an eyebrow as she bundled the little boy, expertly tucking the material of his jacket around the boy's thin limbs before scooping him up against her chest.

His questioning stare was met with defiance.

"Well, Tex, are you going to lead the way?" she taunted. "Or am I supposed to just wander around until I find your oh-so-elusive lair?"

"Don't call me that," Walker retorted.

"Don't call me sugar."

"I'll call you what I daggum well please."

"Then I guess we're stuck at an impasse _Tex_."

He could practically _feel _the pressure in his veins start to rise under her smirk, which had returned to its customary place. It wasn't right for someone to be this good at pushing his buttons. But here he was. And the worst part was, he had no one to blame but himself for it all, because Bullet had warned him.

Walker bit his tongue and jerked his head towards the back wall of the office. "Follow me. An' keep up! It's a bit tricky to find if you don' know what you're lookin' for."

He turned intangible, the familiar feeling of nothingness settling over his frame as he phased through the prison walls and into the Zone. The warden hooked a right once he'd cleared the perimeter, glancing back to make sure Spectra was keeping up with him. She was, not even complaining about the weight of the child sleeping against her.

It was when he turned back to see where he was going that he heard it.

"Of _course _it's tricky to find. Makes it more fun to get lost going to your own lair, right?"

Walker rolled his eyes, then his shoulders, and groaned.

This was going to be a long-haul. . . .

~*O*~

**A/N: **

**Holy shit, two chapters? In two days? What the absolute fuck?!**

**To be honest, I was just super pumped about the response that the first chapter received, and as such decided to power through on the final touches to this chapter so I could go ahead and get it out to you. Thank you so very much for all the lovely praise, and I would love to hear more thoughts and possible theories (later) about what you guys think should happen further on! I can't guarantee I'll listen, but that's to be expected because I'm kind of a hard-headed bitch. **

**Like a couple of my characters, to be honest. **

**Anyway, to clarify a touch based on one of my lovely reviews, I will not be using time skips in this story. Or, if I do, they'll be much later on or only a week or so at a time. Nothing major. There's just too much context and healing to be done for such nonsense. So be prepared to sift through a bunch of rambling for a while because poor Danny is just. . . I love this child. Why do I do horrible things to him? Why? By all accounts, it doesn't make any sense. **

**But here we are. **

**Anyway, I hope you enjoy this (very early) chapter. Be sure to leave me a review in the magic box at the crotch of the screen, and I'll see you at the end of the next chapter. **

**Maybe, they're kinda long and rambly and a little squicky. **

**BlackRosePoetry**


	3. Chapter 3

Penelope dodged a drifting chunk of rock and swore under her breath.

_Fucking Walker. . . Let's just form a layer in the most back-ass part of the Zone this side of the Void. . . Sounds like a great goddamn plan! Stupid Texas jackass. . . _

"Keep up! I don't want y'all getting' lost on my watch!"

She couldn't help it.

"Then slow down, dammit! I'm going as fast as I can without getting Danny smashed!"

Walker rounded on her, and Penelope felt a rush of fear travel up her spine. She held Danny tighter to her chest. Thankfully, though, he slept right through all the noise and the jostling. Poor little guy was exhausted. But this part of the Zone was unfamiliar to her, no recognizable landmarks anywhere near, and Walker might have been a stubborn, rule-obsessed pile of dicks, but he was bigger than she was. And stronger. And though she was confident she could outrun him on a good day, she just. . .

She couldn't leave Danny alone with this dumbass.

Which was strange and foreign because, frankly, she wasn't particularly fond of children. But this boy was different. Somehow.

Ugh – of all the times to regrow a goddamn conscience. . .

The warden glared at her, his eyes glowing in his dead-white face. Then he held his arms out to her. "Here – I'll take 'im."

Penelope blinked in shock. "What?"

"Gimme the punk. It ain't like he weighs a lot, an' you can keep up better if your hands ain't full."

Danny sighed heavily, breath sticky against the side of her throat, and Penelope's grip relaxed just a tad. "You have to hold him carefully. I don't know how much second-hand damage his body formed. We can't make it worse."

Walker rolled his eyes and growled. "Spectra, I ain't gonna hurt 'im. If I was gonna do that, I'd 've done it when he first formed. Now _give him here_. 'm hungry and I wanna eat somethin' 'fore Bullet invades my house."

Slowly, still not quite trusting the large man, Penelope passed Danny over. He grunted, whimpering a little in his sleep. But he settled quickly, and she was struck by how _tiny _the little boy looked against the warden's barrel chest. Especially wrapped in that ridiculous white suit jacket. Walker adjusted Danny's slight weight a bit, then jerked his chin at her.

"C'mon then. Let's get headed that way."

He flew off without another word, leaving Penelope to contemplate putting a damn ecto-blast in his spine. Eventually, she convinced herself it wasn't worth the effort and followed. Walker angled a bit to the right, skirting the furthest edge of the latest black-hole's strike-zone. The air was still charged and heavy thirteen years after the fact. Looking into the dark endless center set Penelope's teeth on edge. She hurried to keep up with Walker, despite the fact that _he _set her teeth on edge too, only to find that the warden was completely at ease with his surroundings. He was whistling under his breath.

Fucking _whistling_.

Penelope rolled her eyes, lazily circling another flying piece of debris. Jesus Christ, why the fuck would anyone _live here_?! This place was a wasteland in the middle of fucking _nowhere_, and she was beginning to wonder if it would just be easier to take Danny to live in her lair. It might've been a bit loud, but there were steps she could take to deaden the noise – Ember _would _listen to her because there were those who made idle threats and then there was Penelope Spectra – and at least she could figure out how to get back to the real fucking world.

Then Bertrand's slimy, vicious grin flashed through her mind and something in her gut froze.

No – Danny couldn't stay at her lair.

Well, then, onto the set of _The Hills Have Eyes_. . .

Penelope glanced up and managed to dodge _just _fast enough to avoid being plowed down by a massive hunk of rock. Ahead of her, she could hear Walker laughing, and her blood pressure rose. Ectoplasm-pressure? Sixty years in the Zone and she _still _had trouble differentiating between human anatomy and ghost anatomy on certain things. What the fuck ever, it didn't matter. All that really mattered was being able to smash her fist into Walker's smug fucking _face_.

"C'mon, sugar! Keep your head on, it ain't far!"

She was going to kill him.

She was going to kill him in his goddamn sleep.

Penelope shot off towards Walker, who had been waiting with Danny tucked into the crook of his arm, and thought of all the wonderful ways she could end the man.

_Hog-tied and tossed in the River of Disgust. Toss him in with the Behemoth. Toss him in with Klemper. . . no, that's cruel even for me. What the hell ever, Penny, why does it matter? You got thrown in a fucking sack by his juice-jock Lieutenant and strong-armed into helping take on a traumatized four-year-old, you deserve a little payback. _

"What the hell is your. . . problem. . ."

As she spoke, Penelope trailed off, unable to quite believe what she was seeing. There, tucked in a little pocket of calm, was a fucking _ranch_. Like, an _actual_ ranch. White-picket fence included. A large open patch of grass – maybe half an acre – made up the front yard, a small barn resting towards the edge of the lair-bounds. The house itself was large, two stories (great, Danny and stairs might be a problem), with a wrap-around porch and dark barnwood siding. There were a couple of chairs out front. A porch-swing. Tin roof. The front door was red and had a wrought-iron cross next to it.

If she walked inside and there was a goddamn Texas flag hanging on the wall, she was not responsible for what would come out of her mouth.

"Are y'all just gonna hang there gawkin, or are ya gonna come inside?"

Penelope startled a bit – she might have forgotten Walker was still waiting on her. No big deal. It wasn't like she wasn't still going to kill him in his sleep one day. Hopefully he was a heavy sleeper. But going off how big a pain in the ass he was, she was leaning towards that being untrue.

She made herself feel better by shooting the warden a glare, flying off towards the farmhouse without a word.

Penelope landed on the front porch with a soft thud and took a deep breath. God, it even _smelled _like a farm. Wet grass and fresh air, the slight tang that comes just before a thunderstorm. There was something vaguely sour beneath it all. But she didn't really want to pin-point that because it would probably end in a bunch of regret.

Walker brushed past her a moment later, easily handling Danny's frail body with one arm as he opened the front door. "Come on in. Wipe your feet on the mat 'fore you come in – the wood's a pain to clean."

Of _course_ – Grandma Clampett in the flesh. Penelope rolled her eyes but did as she was told, choosing to pull off her heels and rest them by the front door. They were stylish and made her legs look _fabulous,_ but they were hell to walk in. She glanced around, trying to discern where Walker had wandered off to.

And she was kind of surprised.

Even though that the house was almost unnervingly clean (_indicators of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, likely an obsessive need for control. . . shit, she was doing it again_) there was nothing particularly ghost-like about it. The front entrance led directly into a spacious living room, dark leather sofas and an obviously well-loved recliner centered around a fireplace. Books lined the back shelves, thick heavy tomes that she couldn't quite make out the titles. Glancing to the left, she could see the kitchen through a small doorway, Walker standing by an old cast-iron sink. The floor was some sort of knotty, scraped wood that she didn't recognize, and the cabinets were painted white. Everything was rustic. Homey. Comfortable.

Frankly, she'd thought that the infamous warden would have a home that was just as uninviting as his prison. But here they were.

Penelope strolled up through to the door. . .

"You've _got _to be kidding me. Now I'm contractually obligated to call you Tex. It's non-negotiable."

. . . there was a fucking Texas flag on the front wall.

Walker's scowl probably could've curdled milk, but Penelope was trying far too hard to keep from laughing to pay attention to that. Standing here, in this rustic, old-ass kitchen, she could almost mistake the warden for a normal man. His posture was impeccable and still a tad stiff, but he'd relaxed. His shoulders were loose, even though Danny had tucked up against his chest. She wondered what made this place so different. Why he thought he could relax here. Perhaps a latent connection. . .

_No, dammit, you are NOT psycho-analyzing the man who tossed you in a fucking sack and made you __**care **__about things, Penelope, fucking FOCUS!_

Penelope sauntered up to him, lazily taking in the rest of the kitchen. The appliances looked rustic, but she was surprised to see that they were well-used and decently high-end. Did he actually _cook_? Humming in thought, she trailed a fingertip along the formica countertop, coming to a stop in front of Walker.

"You're just _tryin_' to get on my very last nerve, ain't ya?" the warden sighed.

"Not particularly," she sing-songed. "You just make it so _easy_. All those buttons to push – it's a wonder you get anything done."

Walker grumbled something under his breath, and Penelope felt her grin widen at his frustration. Okay, so maybe she had been Shang-hai'd, tossed in a sack, and forced to take care of a kid with so many mental scars that it made a 1950's asylum patient look tame. But she could at least take comfort in the fact that she could push any of the good warden's buttons at any time.

"You're about three gallons a crazy in a two gallon bucket, ya know that?" Walker sighed again, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. "Here: take the kid an' I'll give ya the grand tour. I think he's gonna wake up soon anyhow."

Ugh, she hadn't realized that he used euphemisms for _everything_. It must've been all the pent-up swears that he refused to let loose. God knew she'd be suppressed too if she didn't have any outlet for the immense amount of profanity that built up on any given day.

Rolling her eyes, Penelope gently took Danny from Walker's hold. She was surprised: the warden hadn't been exaggerating. She could feel the little boy vibrating against her, energy building up in his thin body as he began to wake up. Bouncing in place, she shushed him quietly, running a hand across the back of his head.

"Lead the way, Tex," Penelope drawled quietly. "This little guy still needs food and a bath. In that order."

Walker nodded, face still a grim mask. "C'mon, then. Bedrooms are this way."

Without another word, he left the kitchen, stepping back into the living room and going down a small hallway. Dark wood and adobe made up the walls throughout the house, it seemed.

"Half-bath to yer left an' the office is at the end of the hall. Everythin' else is upstairs," Walker explained brusquely. "I figure we're gonna have to figure a way to keep the punk away from 'em somehow. But we're all up here together, so I guess that's one good thing 'bout it."

He had a point.

Well, other than the one on top of his head. . .

Penelope followed him upstairs quietly, cataloguing the different hazards they would likely have to work around. The stairs had a tall hand-rail, sturdy from what she could tell, but the stairs themselves were pretty steep. Baby-gates or close monitoring would be important until Danny got his feet under him. No weapons – shockingly – from what she could see. No excessively sharp edges. The floors were hard-wood but there were rugs and runners.

It was almost like the warden had known there would be a kid here at some point.

They reached the top of the stairs, and Walker made his way through the decently-sized landing. He jerked a thumb to the room closest to the stairs. "That room's mine. Master's got an en-suite, so we don't gotta share bathrooms. Got two guest rooms, but I think I know which one'll be best for the punk to stay in."

Walker opened a second door a fair distance from the master, gesturing for her to look inside. "Ya think this room'll suit ya, sugar?"

Danny was starting to wake up more, snuggling deeper into her neck as he began trembling. His little legs felt like twigs as he wrapped them about her waist. But she _had _to see what Walker deemed acceptable quarters for her to live in. It wasn't something she could just turn away from. So Penelope snuck a peek inside, eyes widening at just how _nice _it all was. Three walls of floor-to-ceiling windows, a king-size bed.

Jesus Christ, this was nicer than her own lair, even if all the Texas bullshit was starting to give her a headache.

Whatever, she could get used to it.

"It's fine. But if you call me 'sugar' one more time, we're going to have a problem, _Tex_."

Walker snorted and rolled his eyes. "C'mon. I guess we should let the punk wake up in his room. Not that I suppose it'll make a difference."

Penelope bounced in place some more, shushing the still-waking child a bit. "It _does _make a difference, believe it or not. Now lead the way."

They went to the last room, Penelope glancing into a second bathroom to her right before following. And she was pretty sure her eyebrows disappeared into her hairline when she did.

This was a _child's _room. Very obviously a child's room.

Well, multiple children if the four bunkbeds were anything to go off of. They were sturdy, built right into the wall with an iron ladder to reach the top. She supposed they wouldn't have to worry about Danny wanting the top bunk. He was far too prone to hiding for that, too comfortable with smaller spaces where no one could reach him. There was a toy-chest in the corner, bean-bags under a large window that looked out onto the yard. The dressers were even made with a child in mind.

"Aren't you just full of surprises?" Penelope teased, almost gently. "This place is so clean I thought that you might've actually lived at the prison."

Walker shifted. And was that a _blush _she saw on his cheeks? He cleared his throat, crossed his arms (_defensive body language, dammit_) and looked out the window.

"You think the punk's the only kid that's ever formed in my office? I've seen just 'bout everythin', lady. I even had Johnny 13 for a little while after he formed – dumb punk couldn' figure out how ta get that shadow under control. Youngblood was a nightmare."

Penelope blinked at him. "Are you seriously telling me that you've been a _foster parent _to newly-formed ghost kids for _years_ without anyone finding out about it?"

A snort. "Nah – Bullet knows. I think Skulker figured it out after Ember let it slip she'd crashed here a couple'a times. But otherwise, yeah, I pretty much keep it to myself."

"You've _got _to be shitting me." It slipped out before she could stop it. "There's no way you watched Johnny 13, Ember, _and _Youngblood without anyone figuring it out."

"Watch yer mouth!" Walker snarled. "And yeah, I did. 'cause they all know I expect them to respect my privacy. _And _they know how to respect my laws. Why do you think none of them have ever been in one of my cells?"

She hadn't thought about that.

Despite all evidence to the contrary, Ember and Johnny both had never paid a visit to Walker's prison. They were rough around the edges and stuck in that rebellious phase, sure, but all teenagers essentially were. God, how had she not noticed that both of them stuck to the rules like glue? It was so damn _obvious_!

Penelope opened her mouth to retort.

"No, Mommy, I sorry. I sorry! No hurt, Mommy, I sorry."

Danny was waking up.

Her jaw snapped shut, and she could see Walker's fists clench. The warden swallowed thickly. "You think ya got this?" Penelope nodded, sitting on the edge of one of the bottom bunks, and he continued. "Good. I'm gonna go get supper started. You think he can handle soup or somethin' light?"

She quirked an eyebrow – would wonders never cease? "I think soup would be fine. Nothing too rich. I don't think his stomach could handle it."

Walker nodded. "Got it. I'll holler when it's ready. Shouldn't take too long."

He walked out.

Danny squeezed her tight, whimpering pitifully in his sleep. Something broke deep in her chest. This was a _baby_. And they _broke_ him. But she knew that if she kept following that train of thought, she'd get mad, which would get them nowhere. So Penelope settled more comfortably on the bed and ran her hands through the little boy's white hair. Danny cried out.

"Mommy, please, 'm Danny! 'm sorry! Stop, Mommy, it hurts!"

Her heart cracked.

Fucking conscience. . . emotions were such a load of bullshit.

"Shhh, Danny, honey, you need to wake up. Wake up, sweetie, it's just a nightmare. I've got you. Wake up, little man."

He stopped fighting, hyperventilating, trembling violently.

Then those haunting green eyes snapped open, ectoplasm weeping down his cheeks, and the little boy was staring up at her. Confusion, terror, panic. And then, miraculously, _relief_ lit up his thin face. The bony hands that had wrapped themselves so tightly in her blouse loosened, one finger reaching up to poke her gently on the cheek.

Despite herself, Penelope smiled. "Well, hello there, sleepy-head. Did you have a good nap?"

~*O*~

danny thinks he's dreaming but he can't be sure.

he can't be sure of anything anymore. because the drugs make his head fuzzy and mommy's yelling and the skaal-pulls make everything hurt and he's not sure what is up or down or front-ways or back-ways, and sometimes they make him see things that aren't actually _there_.

but he's cold and it's dark and he's back in the lab. he knows because of the smell. it's really strong, burning his nose and it reminds him of dirty pennies, of mommy's dirty beakers and the 'zooka that she likes so much and he's scared again, feels the straps digging into his arms and his legs won't work and oh, no, he can't _see_! can't see can't see can't see why can't he see anymore, mommy, what's going on?

why mommy, I'm danny, your baby your boy, and daddy please help, no hitting, I'm sorry what did I do wrong can I fix it?

_where's my danny, ghost, what have you done with him?!_

oh no, more yelling. he hates yelling. he misses jazzy, misses cookies and cartoons and the stars. he wishes he could see the stars again. hug bear aldrin. maybe neil bunnystrong.

danny doesn't know what's going on and it _hurts_. hurts hurts hurts and what's wrong with his chest, it hurts, he can't see and it _hurts_ and they're tearing him apart and _mommy_ _please I'm danny I'm sorry stop mommy it hurts!_

and there's a hand on his throat and it's squeezing and he can't _breathe_ and. . .

"Shhhh, Danny, honey, you need to wake up. Wake up, sweetie, it's just a nightmare. I've got you. Wake up, little man."

wait.

he knows that voice.

but it _hurts hurts hurts_ and he doesn't know what's going on and he can't _see_ but he knows that voice so he fights. he can't move his arms and he can't move his legs but he _fights _and he wants his mommy but mommy makes it hurt so he goes towards the pretty voice, familiar, and then. . . .

danny wakes up and he wants to scream but there's no sound left in his throat, nothing but the nasty taste of dirty pennies, and he clutches at. . .

there's something in his hands.

danny stops, freezes, and he starts to shake until it feels like his bones are rattling themselves apart but he can't _help it_. then there's a hand on the back of his head. someone's rocking him. it doesn't smell like the lab anymore, like dirty pennies and death, no, it smells like raspberries and cream and danny remembers ms. penny and mr. walker and his pal the coat and. . .

he looks up and he can _see_.

mommy something's wrong I can't see it hurts please mommy what's going on?

it. . . it was all _real_. danny can't believe it because even though his hands had told him it was real, he still hadn't quite _believed it_ because there were so many tricks, so many promises, and he remembers crying and crying and _crying_ until he just couldn't keep his eyes open anymore even though his eyes ached, even though there was something very very wrong about them. he lets go of ms. penny's shirt and pokes her in the cheek again. mommy had said it was rude to poke people but he _has _to know. has to make sure.

her cheek is still warm and the skin is still soft and danny thinks he might cry again.

then she _smiles _at him, actually _smiles_, and he doesn't know what to do, how to think confusion because he's a very bad little boy, right? made mommy and daddy hate him, right?

"Well, hello there, sleepy head. Did you have a good nap?"

danny blinks. once, twice. something dribbles over his cheek and ms. penny wipes it away with her thumb. he sees it, green and sick-sticky, and he sucks in some air through his teeth and the shaking starts again because that's so _wrong_. wrong wrong wrong wrong why is it green what's wrong with his eyes why is he cold what's going on can't think can't breathe doesn't know so scared why why why?!

"Shhhh. . . sweetheart, it's okay. I've got you. Nothing's going to hurt you, alright? Everything's going to be just fine. I need you to breathe with me, Danny. Big breath. Can you do that?"

can he? doesn't know. too much. can't think. everything hurts. feels like he's swimming in honey. more sticky stuff. wants to cry but can't and no mommy everything hurts why why why ms. penny kisses him on the forehead, rocks him, holds him tight. why is she doing this? why?

he's a very bad little boy and very bad little boys do not get hugs or kisses and no one loves them and. . .

"Sweetie, you need to breathe. Breathe with me. In." Big breath. "Out."

it whooshes past his ear and danny flinches but then he holds tighter because what if she _leaves_? what if she disappears because he can't listen and he tries, tries very hard to be a good little boy and takes a breath with her. it burns in his chest, wants to get out get out get out but he holds it because ms. penny hasn't let it go yet. when she does, he lets it leave, and why does everything burn tries to follow instructions.

"Good job, Danny. You're doing so well, sweetheart. That's it."

danny wants to cry.

he shouldn't lie – lying is bad, mommy and daddy told him so – and he can't just let ms. penny keep thinking he's a good little boy. because he isn't. he's very bad, mommy told him so. she shouldn't have to deal with someone so horrible.

and the sounds leave him before he can stop them and they sound like nails on chalkboards, say _'m bad. 'm sorry. don' mean to be. _

ms. penny looks at him and it makes his insides squirm because she looks so _sad_ and he doesn't mean to make her sad and he whispers _'m sorry _again like that will somehow make it all better. and then ms. penny hugs him tight again, rocks him back and forth, and she's so _warm_. danny holds tight and huddles close and tries to disappear.

"Honey, I need you to listen to me very carefully. Can you do that?"

listen?

danny can do that.

he nods and holds tight and ms. penny talks again, and danny likes that she's so quiet, that she doesn't yell or scream or boom like mommy and daddy did.

"Danny, you are _not_ bad. You're a very good little boy who has had very bad things happen to him. But _none _of that is your fault. Do you understand?"

not. . . not his fault?

how is it not his fault? mommy said so – said he was a liar and a freak and a _ghost_ and she strapped him to the table and made him hurt and daddy had laughed when he cried. danny doesn't understand, twists his fingers in the back of ms. penny's shirt and shakes and tries to be very still. maybe if he's very still she'll forget he's here and just carry him everywhere.

ms. penny sighs and kisses his head again.

"Alright, sweetheart. We'll work on that some more later, how's that sound?"

later sounds nice, danny thinks.

he twists some of her hair around his fingers and snuggles into her neck and listens for her heartbeat. except. . . he waits too long. there's no heartbeat in her chest. no _thu-thump thu-thump thu-thump_. danny stiffens, startles, sits up and presses his hand to where his head was sitting and waits. nothing. _nothing_.

ms. penny frowns, takes his hand in one of hers and rubs the back with her thumb.

"Danny? Sweetie, what's wrong?"

danny whimpers and it feels like nails in his throat and his eyes ache, sticky-something on his cheeks again, and _where thump? heart hurt?_

ms. penny looks confused, like he's said something strange. but then her eyes widen, and she squeezes his fingers just a little tighter. it doesn't hurt. it _doesn't hurt_.

"My heartbeat? Is that what you're looking for?"

heartbeat. danny remembers those. he likes listening to jazzy's sometimes when he has a nightmare and mommy and daddy are too busy in the lab. he nods, and he feels his lip trembling and he _is not gonna cry_. he's a big boy, a bad boy, he doesn't deserve to cry. but ms. penny smiles at him, kisses his forehead, and he thinks that the look she gives him is very sad. he doesn't want her to be sad.

"Oh, sweetie, you've got so much to learn. But you don't have to worry about that, okay? There's nothing to worry about with me."

danny sniffles, pats her cheek and even though promises hurt, promises are bad, he thinks that a promise that she's not lying wouldn't be such a terrible thing. and his throat still feels like it's splitting but he has to know so he whispers _promise?_ and waits for the a-splosion.

it doesn't come because ms. penny stands up and bounces him a little and her smiles are always so sad. they make his chest feel icky.

"I promise. Now, Walker is cooking dinner for us downstairs. Are you hungry?"

hungry?

danny feels like his tummy is trying to eat itself.

but. . .

_where we at?_

ms. penny laughs quietly, bouncing him on her hip a little.

"I guess I forgot to tell you, didn't I? This is where we're going to be staying until you feel better, sweetie. Do you like your new room?"

danny looks around and sees that this room is bigger than his old room and there are big windows here instead of a little tiny one and there are _bunk beds_. and he's always wanted a bunk bed and a bean bag and are those _toys_ in the corner? does he get toys again? danny doesn't know what to think, how to act, but he's just so happy because maybe he gets to sleep in a bed again? get a teddy bear? no dark no cold no hurt?

he nods because he can't speak, and his smile feels like it's rusty, like it doesn't want to pull on his cheeks but then ms. penny smiles _back_ and it's warm, like the sun coming out in the morning, and danny hugs her tight around the neck because that's the only thing he can think to do. he doesn't want this to disappear. no tricks, please, no tricks.

"I'm going to take that as a yes, then." ms. penny laughs, but it sounds wet, and he thinks she might be crying. "Come on, big guy. Let's go see if Walker has dinner ready. And then, after we eat, we'll see about taking a bath, alright? Someone's bringing new clothes for you to wear."

new. . . new clothes?

danny hasn't worn anything but his jumpsuit in so long. what will it be like to wear new clothes again? he doesn't know, but he hopes they'll be loose. the jumpsuit rubs against his scars and it itches and sometimes they catch and that hurts, but ms. penny seems very nice. he doesn't think she'll hurt him. he _doesn't_. really.

I'll hunt you down and I'll find you and you won't get away with hurting my baby, ghost, I'll break you I promise.

ms. penny starts walking down a hallway and danny holds tight and he _doesn't think she'll hurt him_.

he doesn't.

~*O*~

Walker added a couple more sprigs of parsley to the thick soup and stirred.

His shoulders were still tense, and his head ached from how hard his jaw had been clenched all day. He'd been up since 0400. The punk had formed at 0500. Bullet had left at 0600 to find Spectra. They'd come strolling in at 0930. And the problems had been non-stop ever since. . .

He sighed, rolling his sleeves up a little further on his forearms and tasting the soup. It was good, thick broth and big chunks of chicken. It wasn't nearly as rich as he was accustomed to. But he supposed that wasn't necessarily a bad thing. Little guy was so skinny it'd be a wonder if he could keep anything down. And neither he or Penelope knew exactly what was going on _inside _the kid. Judging by those scars, it would be a miracle if his body had thought to form any internal organs.

Which would only be a real problem if they'd still been alive.

Another taste.

Needed more salt.

Walker hummed under his breath, a song he'd heard from a confiscated music-player, and added a pinch more. Stirred for a few minutes. Tasted again. He smiled – perfect.

With a flick of his wrist, he turned the burner to low and gave the pot a final stir. Still humming, he moved to wash his hands, eyes flicking towards the doorway. They'd been up there for a while. He'd taught plenty of kids over the years. Johnny had been pretty easy – cigarette habits could be curbed, and he didn't particularly mind working on motorcycles. Ember had been somewhat trickier. She had a mean-streak wider than her backside and a smart mouth. But she'd eventually come around. And he wouldn't even go into Youngblood. He swore the kid woke up every day with a set number of spankings in mind for the day.

But _this kid_. . . he didn't have a snowball's chance in Hades of trying to get through to this kid on his own.

Walker finished scrubbing his fingernails and shook his hands dry. The edges of his tattoo were peeping out from under his left sleeve. He'd have to remember to cover it before Spectra got back down.

Running a hand through his hair, Walker yawned and got the dishes down from the cupboard. Three bowls, three glasses. Well, three glasses and a sippy cup. Couldn't let the kid have a panic-attack because he accidentally broke a glass. He'd just finished mixing up some milk for the little punk when he heard them coming down the stairs. Spectra had a unique rhythm when she walked. Simultaneously light and commanding. Like she was in the middle of a constant waltz.

"Alright, big man, are you ready to eat? I bet you're hungry." A pause. "Alright, then, let's see what Walker made for the both of us."

She stepped into the kitchen a moment later, bouncing the little boy on her hip as she went. There was a smile on her face, directed only at the kid. But her eyes were strained, a little red. She'd been crying. Or at least holding back tears.

Walker rolled down his sleeve and jerked his head towards the small table he'd set up. "Y'all hungry, boy?"

Danny peeped out from where he'd been buried in Spectra's neck, and the warden had to suppress a shudder. He didn't think those eyes would ever stop being haunting. But there was a tiny nod that followed the question, and Walker realized that had been the first true response he'd ever garnered. He managed a wry grin.

"Good. I got some chicken noodle soup for ya. Put some meat back on your bones," he joked, keeping his voice low.

Danny actually _smiled_. Just a small one. But it was there, and Spectra's grin widened just a tad. She ruffled the little boy's hair gently, sauntering past without so much as a glance at anything else. Walker scowled. He knew the kid came first. But ignoring someone who made supper was just daggum _rude_. His mama would've had a conniption.

Deciding to ignore the slight – picking your battles was something he'd learned early on – Walker followed with a quiet grumble. He pulled Spectra's chair out for her because manners were _important_, dangit, and watched as she sat, Danny still wrapped around her waist. There was a booster in the chair between them.

But it looked like that would be a bust this early on.

Silently, Walker plucked the booster up and put it back in its previous spot under the china-cabinet. Then he sat down, bowed his head for a quick prayer, and started eating. Spectra hadn't touched her food yet. She was too busy trying to coax the punk into opening his mouth for a bite, jogging his thin body on her knee.

"C'mon, sweetheart, it's chicken noodle soup," she cajoled. "You'll love it, I promise."

Danny worried the edge of her blouse between his fingers, tucked as far as he possibly could against her body. He eyed the spoon of broth distrustfully. A droplet of ectoplasm wept down his cheek, and Spectra wiped it away gently with her thumb. Walker watched them quietly for another second, then came up with an idea.

"Here, kid." The warden plucked the spoon from the shade's fingers. "I'll take a bite first, and then you can take a bite. Sound good?"

The little boy didn't say anything, but he managed a timid nod. Walker took a spoonful of the kid's soup, blew on it for a second, and then swallowed. God, that was good. Mama's recipe had yet to let him down, honest to goodness. After a long second of just watching – those _eyes_! – Danny seemed to be satisfied. A little hand reached for the spoon, bone-thin and frightening. But it was shaking so bad that he couldn't hold the utensil on his own.

"Here, baby, can I help?" Spectra interrupted.

Danny nodded again, happily tucked against Spectra's chest, and she feeds him a small spoonful. The little boy savored the bite. Savored the taste. Savored the fact that he had _food_. Jesus, this kid just kept getting more and more depressing.

"Is that good?" Spectra whispered.

He didn't answer, just opened his mouth for another bite, automatically craving more. Walker couldn't help but chuckle, and he quirked an eyebrow at the woman, who had squinted at him quizzically.

"You're just jealous 'cause y'all didn't think of it first."

Spectra pouted at him, loading up the spoon with another bite for Danny. "I would've gotten there! It's just been kind of a long day."

Walker snorted. "That's like callin' the fall 'a Rome a minor mishap."

As both adults chuckled to each other, shaking their heads at the morbid joke, Danny continued eating, thin face alive with wonder as he savored every bite. Eventually, though, he clamped his jaw shut and reclined against Spectra's chest, still toying with the bottom of her shirt. He used the material like a worry-stone, rubbing it back and forth between his fingers, eyes drooping as the red-head ate her own supper.

Well, his eyes were drooping until Bullet knocked on the door.

The kid practically jumped out of his own skin, whirling around until both arms and legs were wrapped tight about Spectra. It was like he thought she'd disappear on him at the slightest provocation. Walker grumbled to himself and polished off the last of his soup, glaring at Bullet as he came through the door.

"Y'all have a key, Bullet. Didn' hafta knock," the warden drawled.

Bullet had the sense to look a little guilty, eye focusing on the kid in Spectra's lap for a second before returning to his boss. He gestured to the two suitcases in his hands, one significantly larger than the other.

"Sorry, boss. I didn't think about startling the kid – you're usually just so damn picky about your privacy."

"Watch your language!" Walker growled in warning. "Now, please tell me yer missus has more sense than you an' got the punk some decent clothes to wear?"

Bullet nodded, a wide grin plastered to his scarred face. "Yep! She always was the brains of the operation. Kept all of Tommy's old things in boxes listed by age. I jus' packed up everythin' from age 2 to 5, give him some variety as he fills out a bit."

Spectra, who had managed to calm Danny a bit, glanced up in surprise. "Really? I'm surprised that _you _managed to come up with something that smart, juice-jocky. Is that why there's two suitcases?"

Bullet's good-natured grin turned nasty, and he snorted. "Naw – this other one's for your sorry self. Bertrand packed it up real nice for ya – said somethin' about wantin' to make sure you were comfortable enough until you could come home, whatever that means."

Something in Spectra's expression went cold, and was that fear that he caught just behind her eyes? Walker filed that away for later too. He stood with a groan, picking up the dirty dishes and jerking his head towards the staircase.

"Alright, lieutenant, y'all know where to put 'em. Spectra's in the guest bedroom, Danny's at the end. Will ya pull out a pair of pajamas for 'im? Kid needs a bath – looks like he's been butchered with the hogs."

Bullet nodded, as close to a salute as he could come with his hands full. "Yessir."

The lieutenant marched up the stairs without another word, and Spectra shot Walker a look over her shoulder. Danny had quit shaking quite so badly, content to be held with a hand against the crown of his head, hiding his face as best he could.

"Why didn't he just phase through the ceiling? The rooms should be literally right above us."

Walker snorted, rinsing out the dishes before he set about putting away the leftovers. "We're gonna go over house-rules later. But that's one of 'em: we don't use unnecessary powers in the house. Sets a bad example for the brats when they're tryin' ta get the hang of 'em."

He could practically hear the gears in Spectra's conniving little head turning. But she didn't say anything else, just went back to rocking the punk, whispering to him as he came down from the panic he'd worked himself into. Walker sighed for about the thousandth time that day.

This had to have been the worst situation he'd worked himself into. Bar _none_. Because on the one hand, he _needed _Spectra. Had no idea how to deal with a kid this scarred up. But on the other hand. . .

"Hey, Tex, do you mind helping me with Danny's bath? Or is that against your house rules too?"

On the other hand, he had to deal with _that_.

For the foreseeable future.

Walker rolled his eyes to Heaven and made a silent prayer for patience. One that the good Lord had yet to answer, but he was still trying, dangit. He ran a hand through his hair – it was going to turn gray one day, he just knew it – and turned to face the red-head smirking at him from the table. How she could go from coaching a kid through a panic attack to torturing him in half a second defied any sort of logic that Walker had ever come across.

"Have ya finished eatin'?" he asked.

Spectra blinked at him. "What?"

"I'd be happy to help with the little punk's bath – Lord knows I suffered through plenty with Youngblood – but it's another rule in my house that no one leaves the kitchen until everyone's finished eatin'. Are y'all finished?"

She obviously hadn't been expecting such an ultimatum because those eyes of hers turned wide and almost childish, staring at him in complete shock. But Spectra wasn't one to be taken off guard for long, it seemed. She gathered herself and nodded.

"I'm finished. Actual food doesn't really do it for me anyway."

Of _course_, how in the _Zone_ could he have forgotten that little nugget of information?

"Alright, then. Bath-time for the brat and then bed. I'm about to fall over."

Walker could hear Bullet come down the stairs just as Spectra snorted at him. "Seriously? It's like eight o'clock, cowboy, where's that late to bed-early to rise vibe?"

"It died a painful death with his patience when you came outta that sack this morning."

Bullet didn't even break stride, grinning as he stomped in from the hallway, and Walker had to fight to keep a smile off his face. Smart-aleck had been saving that one, he just knew it. But the warden managed to compose himself, ignoring the fact that Spectra's glare could've bore a hole through his lieutenant's core three times over. He shook Bullet's hand gratefully.

"Alright, you, git on home. Yer missus'll have my head on a plate," Walker growled. "An' don't forget that you're in charge for the next couple weeks! I expect those boys to be in shape and sufferin' when I get back."

Bullet laughed, only stopping when he heard Danny squeak in terror. "Not to worry, boss-man! I got everything under control. Goodnight. Call me if you need anything."

Walker waved him out the door. "Git on, you idjit!"

He could practically _feel _Bullet grinning even as the front door snicked shut. The warden rolled his shoulders, gesturing for Spectra to walk ahead of him.

"Ladies first."

She glared at him for a few moments. Then up the stairs she went, movements not jostling the little boy in the slightest, and Walker quirked an eyebrow. This one was _trouble_. . . about a hundred and fifteen pounds of it.

"Why don't you get the water started running since you know how everything works?" Spectra called over her shoulder. "I'll see what your moron of a lieutenant deemed suitable for him to sleep in. We'll go from there."

At least she'd tried to phrase it as a question, and it wasn't as though it was an unreasonable request. Walker nodded, rolling up his sleeves again as she disappeared into the back room. The bathroom he liked to use for the kids was decently sized, and he was happy that the copper tub had come out all right – it was just like the one they used to take baths in as kids.

Except this one had hot water.

He'd got the water running and made sure the temperature wasn't too hot, just in case the kid really did have some sort of ice abilities. Too much heat and they'd fry his little brains. Walker waited until the tub was about half-way full before stopping the stream, pulling a couple of Youngblood's old bath toys from the cabinet under the sink. A duck, a boat, a fish. Pretty standard fair.

Spectra came waltzing in a minute later, Danny still glued to her waist like a koala. Or a monkey. She held his pajamas folded neatly in one hand and set them on the vanity.

"Okay, so he's a meat-headed idiot, but apparently his wife has good taste. The space pj's were a hit."

Every word that came out of her mouth had to fight for any amount of respect it could get, and Walker had to hide another grin. He then gestured for her to sit on the stool he'd pulled up.

"Alright, quit jawin' an' let's get to washin'," he grumbled. "I'd like to go to bed 'fore tomorrow mornin'."

Spectra rolled her eyes at him but did as she was told. She sat primly on the edge of the stool and gently pried Danny's grip away from her. The boy whimpered quietly, breath starting to quicken as he was separated from his make-shift worry-stone. But Spectra shushed him, quick to brush away the ectoplasm leaking down his cheeks with a smile so genuine it made Walker question her acting ability. She was good, sure, but was she _this good_?

"Shhh, sweetie, it's alright. We've got to give you a bath, and we can't do that if you're stuck to me like a monkey, now, can we?" She kept her voice soft, cadence lilting. "Now, is it ok if we take this jumpsuit off? Then we can get you all clean and in your new pjs. How does that sound?"

Walker realized something – Spectra always asked permission before doing something and always made sure that the boy responded before moving on. He'd have to remember that.

Hesitantly, Danny nodded, lip quivering as both Walker and Spectra set about removing the filthy rags he was wearing. They came off with minimal effort, and the warden curled up his nose at how _offensive _it was. It smelled like blood and sweat and fear. He set it on fire with a quick burst of plasma when the kid wasn't looking. Nothing to see here, kiddo, not anymore.

But. . .

Holy Mary, he hadn't realized the kid was that bad off.

It was hard not to react to the condition Danny's body was in. Which was saying something because both of them had seen some pretty gnarly reforms in their time. Younger kids usually had it worse. Their minds couldn't comprehend that their bodies could be different after death. But this. . .

Spectra's smile didn't quite reach her eyes as she set about washing Danny's back, cooing reassurances the entire time. The little punk didn't seem to notice, intensely focused on the little tug-boat that Walker had set out for him to play with, lips moving silently as he mimed making the noises. He was rail-thin, vertebrae and ribs glaring out at them through his skin. There were scars all along his torso, concentrated in the shoulder area, though there were a few in different spots along his ribs that made Walker cringe a little. The Y-incision was. . . it was rough and raised, and the little boy flinched violently every time one of them tried to wash near it. Track marks and bruises littered his straw-like arms.

By the time they'd managed to wash his hair, the water was murky with filth and Walker wanted to slam his fist into every wall in the house. He handed Spectra the fluffiest towel in the bathroom, watching in silence as she bundled him up.

"Good job, Danny," she praised. "You were so very, very brave, big man. I'm so _proud _of you."

Danny's tiny responding smile was pitiful, almost like he couldn't believe the words she said. Walker helped maneuver the little punk into his new clothes while Spectra held him, face grim even as those dadgum eyes peeked up at him curiously. But then those little fingers were tracing the rocket ships on the shirt, that smile creeping out like a sunrise, and something in the warden's chest fractured just a tad.

"Do ya like 'em, kid?" he asked.

Danny didn't startle this time. Just raised his head and nodded shyly.

Walker managed a smile. "Tommy liked rockets too when he was you're age. Liked stars an' space. Maybe we'll go out and I'll teach ya 'bout constellations sometime."

The little boy was still almost painful to look at. Horrendously thin. Eyes ripped from his head. Scars peeped out from the collar and wrists of his over-large pajama shirt. But his hair was now a pure snowy white and his skin had a bit of collar to it, although it had taken on a slightly green tinge.

But as he nodded shyly up at him, arms still wrapped tightly around Spectra's neck, Walker could almost believe there was hope there yet.

**A/N:**

**Oh Lord, please forgive me for this absolute UNIT of a chapter and I should be sleeping because I have a fucking TEST tomorrow but anyway here's a chapter filled with sass, sass, a very depressing little boy, and Walker, who was once voted the Ghost Zone's crunchiest tsundere dad.**

**Leave me a review and tell me what you think! Even if you think I'm fucking sick and I need to go the fuck to sleep (Samuel L. Jackson voice included)**


	4. Chapter 4

danny holds tight to ms. penny and tries to remember to breathe as she carries him.

this place is different, big and open and there's no dark, no skaal-pulls, no yelling, but he doesn't really know what it will be like _without _all those things, doesn't know if he can remember how to breathe and how to speak words and how to not shake like his bones are coming apart. doesn't know what it's like not to be cold, not to hurt, not to stay quiet and not think and _no, mommy, 'm sorry please don't!_

they're walking down stairs now and danny tries to remember how to take them. jazzy always held his hand when he walked down the stairs and mommy always carried him and daddy would sometimes remember to help but sometimes he forgot 'cause he was silly like that no daddy please don't I'll be a good boy I promise no more hitting but if danny fell he always got fudge and flapjacks.

he twists his hands in ms. penny's shirt and it feels soft against his skin, warm, and his knuckles crack a bit. but she just holds him tight and hums in his ear and her voice is always very very quiet because she knows loud loud loud is very scary scary scary.

"Alright, big man, are you ready to eat? I bet your hungry."

danny's tummy makes a growl and it feels like it's trying to eat its way out of his skin, saying _feed me feed me feed me_ and it's odd, because he hasn't felt hungry in so long, but now that he's here instead of in the lab he knows what it's like to be hungry again. his throat hurts and his head is confused but danny is trying to be a very good little boy so he nods, tells ms. penny the truth, and he can feel a kiss against the top of his head.

"Alright, then, let's see what Walker made for the both of us."

ms. penny keeps humming as she walks in another door and danny can smell something that makes his tummy do an angry growl and he's so _hungry_ but he doesn't want to be rude, doesn't want to be a bad little boy because what if they send him _back_? what if they hurt him strap him to a table skaal-pulls in his chest coming at his eyes it hurts it hurts it hurts why mommy please stop it hurts decide they don't want him anymore like mommy and daddy did? it's a scary thought and danny has learned that the world is a scary place, but maybe if he just holds tight and keeps his face hidden he doesn't have to see it anymore.

danny thinks it's easier to be a good boy when you can't see.

"Y'all hungry, boy?"

walker is kind of a scary man but even though his face is grumpy and his voice is kind of mean he hasn't hurt danny yet, even gave him the coat, who is his best pal, so the least he can do is answer him. so danny takes his face away from ms. penny's neck and nods and the big man with his white scary face and his very dark hair smiles at him. and danny is surprised because when mr. walker smiles he's not quite so scary anymore.

"Good. I got some chicken noodle soup for ya. Put some meat back on your bones."

danny smiles and it feels rusty because that was something aunt alicia used to say. put some meat on yer bones, boy, eat some more soup, boy, and danny likes aunt alicia even though she's got her hair cut like a boy's and can beat daddy in arm wrestling. because she was always very nice to him, always gives him big hugs and bigger kisses and presents when she could. danny wonders if she thinks he's a bad boy too. if she would yell and scream and say mean things and make it hurt.

probably.

aunt alicia says mommy is always right, and mommy did those things, so she would too. danny's heart hurts.

ms. penny ruffles his hair and danny nearly startles, but her fingers aren't rough like daddy's or push like mommy's against the skin until it bruises. nope, they just play with his hair and it's kinda tickly and danny doesn't know what to think about that, doesn't know how to react because that's the way jazzy used to play with his hair when he figured out a puzzle piece or said his numbers in the right order or showed her his toy rocket for the first time.

danny is small and he is hungry and he hurts and he misses his sissy.

ms. penny kisses him on the cheek, puts him in her lap at the table, and danny thinks she would be a very good mommy. it makes him sad that she must be nice to a bad little boy like him.

he isn't very hungry anymore.

even though his tummy is growling at him like it's mad and ms. penny is trying to give him a spoon that look-smells wonderful. mommy used to give him spoons that he thought were food but they ended up burning his nose, his throat, his mouth, his tummy, and danny would cry and cry and _cry_ because he would throw up until nothing happened anymore and it's right _there_ and his tummy is _hungry _but he just. . .

"C'mon, sweetheart, it's chicken noodle soup. You'll love it, I promise."

he can't.

he _can't_.

danny wants to cry because ms. penny is being so nice to him, no yell no hurt no bad no skaal-pull, and he can't even eat soup that mr. walker must have worked very hard on and he's so _stupid_. a dumb little baby and he's very bad and he doesn't even deserve the soup and his tummy is screaming at him. . .

mr. walker takes the spoon and looks at him and danny listens.

"Here, kid. I'll take a bite first, and then you take a bite. Sound good?"

he is a big man with a scary face and his voice is grumpy but danny thinks that mr. walker is actually very nice after all. he makes his muscles work again, makes his head go up then down, and then the soup on the spoon is gone. and danny waits for the burning, waits for coughs and tears and throwing up until there's nothing left. but it never comes. mr. walker just smiles at him and gives him the spoon and danny realizes that _it's not a trick_, that's _food _in the bowl, and his tummy roars again and he reaches for it and is that his hand? it's so scary, all thin and shaky, and he can't even make the fingers work right to pick up a spoon and. . .

"Here, baby, can I help?

oh. help? was that something grown-ups did?

danny nods and he squirms until he's as far against ms. penny as he can go. and he opens his mouth and the spoon goes in and. . .

it's _food._

it's chicken noodle soup, and that's danny's new favorite, because it's warm and it tastes like chicken and veggies and salt. he swishes it around in his mouth until he can't stand to not have it in his tummy anymore and it's so _good_. he wants another bite, please another bite, anything for another bite. he can feel ms. penny laugh against him and it rattles in his bones but in a nice way.

"Is that good?"

it _is_ and danny opens his mouth for more and he can hear mr. walker chuckling. and ms. penny gives him _another bite_ and he swishes swishes swishes it around and are those _carrots_? they taste like carrots and danny chews them and they _are_ and he opens his mouth for another. and the grown-ups are talking but it sounds like they're stuck under water because all danny can think is _more more more_ until suddenly his tummy is yelling at him for another reason and it's saying _no no no_. but danny doesn't _want _to stop, because it tastes so _good_ but he has to listen to his tummy.

he doesn't like throwing up.

so danny shuts his mouth and turns his face back into ms. penny's neck and feels himself get sleepy. he's a very bad boy and those don't get sleep but boy he could sure use a nap. there's a hand on the back of his head, wrapped around his back, and it's gentle, doesn't hurt, and something soft is between his fingers. danny rubs it back and forth and back again. he thinks it might be ms. penny's shirt.

the grown-ups are still talking but his head hurts, and the words sound funny, like he's swimming in jell-o so danny doesn't try to understand, just keeps rubbing his fingers. back and forth and back again. his eyelids are heavy.

and then there's a knock at the door and . . .

knock knock knock and then there's big hands on his throat and a skaal-pull in his shoulder and danny is screaming for mommy and she doesn't listen, just laughs, and daddy hits him and oh no why can't he see? and it hurts, mommy, why are you doing this and knock knock knock then needles and there's something in his chest and he's cold and it's dark and

danny jumps even though he doesn't mean to, turns around with sawdust in his bones, and he wraps around ms. penny because what if they've come to take him away? he doesn't want to leave. and he's a very bad boy and he doesn't deserve all the nice things that happen and he's selfish but maybe if he holds on to ms. penny real tight then they won't make him leave. please no please no please no please no he doesn't want to go. . .

"Shhh, sweetheart, it's alright. You're okay. It's just the man who brought your clothes, baby."

brought his clothes? new clothes? thinks he remembers but not sure, wants to hold tight, wants to stay here and he can't go back, _won't _go back, and his throat keeps making noises even though it hurts and he can't hear ms. penny's heart, why can't he hear her heart? why why why there's nothing in his chest but it hurts anyway and he can't _breathe!_

"Big breath, sweetie. C'mon – breathe with me."

okay, he can do that. her chest rises against him and danny sucks air in, holds it, then it burns, and ms. penny's chest collapses and danny lets the air go and that burns too. in burn out burn in burn out burn. he can breathe even though it doesn't feel like anything but syrup, sticky and tasting a nasty kind of sweet on his tongue and his bones are

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in his head, crack crack cracking in his ears and danny doesn't know what's going on, so he holds tight to ms. penny and hopes, no, _prays_ that no one will take him from here.

then there's a hand against his head and it's small and it's soft and familiar.

danny stops thinking.

"Y'all have a key, Bullet. Didn' hafta knock."

mr. walker sounds a little miffed but danny doesn't understand why he's talking to a bullet because daddy had showed him one of those and they didn't talk back. and then there's _another _voice, another man, and danny holds tighter and he thinks his fingers are going to break, thinks they're going to snap right off because he's squeezing ms. penny so tight.

"Sorry, boss. I didn't think about startling the kid – you're usually just so damn picky about your privacy."

more people. gonna hurt? danny doesn't know but ms. penny is rubbing the back of his head, cheek against him, and she's whispering. he thinks that mr. walker answers the man he called bullet but his ears are full of cotton and he's too busy trying to keep from shaking apart to pay attention. then ms. penny is talking and her voice is very quiet, but she doesn't sound as nice when she's not talking to danny and, oh no, the other man sounds like he's making _fun _of her and danny just. . .

does that hurt, little ghost? is it too much? aww, poor baby, thinks it can get away with taking my boy from me but I promise that you won't last much longer because you're going to tell me where danny is, going to break. I will hunt you down I will tear you apart I will make you hurt, ghost, you're _nothing_ and you will bring me my baby back I promise

ms. penny has stopped talking to the man and she kisses him on the temple and she smells like jazzy, raspberries and cream, and danny feels like he can breathe again. his fingers relax and they're cramping and his legs feel like jell-o from where they were squeezed around her waist and ms. penny keeps a hand against the back of his head, fingers through his hair, and danny feels himself go limp. he stops shaking.

he doesn't have the energy anymore.

danny thinks that being four is very hard and he hates being such a bad boy, wants to be a good boy, because things like this don't happen to good boys. good boys don't hurt and good boys don't get strapped to tables with skaal-pulls in their shoulders and fingers in their eyes and. . .

ms. penny starts to whisper to him, rocking back and forth and back again.

"Shhh, baby, it's okay. You're going to be just fine. Big breaths, sweetheart. That's my boy. I've got you. You're safe."

danny presses his face into her neck and tries to make himself believe her. he thinks it's very hard to do that. she makes _promises _and promises _hurt_. and he doesn't know if he'll ever figure out what he did to become such a very bad boy. but maybe. . . she hasn't hurt him and her voice is very quiet and she smiles at him so maybe ms. penny can make promises not hurt anymore.

ms. penny and mr. walker are talking again. his head hurts. he doesn't try to listen anymore.

then there's a laugh and. . .

daddy laughs and laughs and laughs and danny tries to tell him that he's not lying but daddy's laugh isn't nice anymore, not like it used to be, and his grin is mean and daddy's hands are big as they hit him in the chest and something _cracks_ and no no no it hurts, daddy, please stop!

something trickles down his throat and it tastes like dirty pennies because danny makes a noise. he doesn't mean to. but laughing is _bad_ when it isn't ms. penny and laughing means hurt so danny holds tight and hides his face and tries to brace himself for the hitting-screaming-skaal-pulls.

they never come and instead ms. penny rocks him some more and kisses his cheek and danny doesn't know what to think of any of this. it makes his brain all fuzzy, and even though his tummy is full, it _aches_ and he doesn't. . . he can't. . .

his eyes are leaking and they ache and he wants to stop being scared, please, just for a second.

then ms. penny is moving, and it's like what danny thinks flying would be like, because she doesn't bump him or make anything hurt or nothin' and he wraps his fingers in her hair and it's soft, feels like jazzy's except the color's all wrong and his heart hurts a little. he wants to go home but he _doesn't _want to go home and everything's a mess and it's all his fault.

danny keeps his face hidden until suddenly ms. penny is _setting him down _and he doesn't like that, no no no, he'll be a good boy, honest, just please don't leave don't leave don't leave!

"Hey, hey, hey! It's alright! I've got some pjs here for you, baby. Don't you want to see what they look like? They've got rocket ships and stars on them!"

stars?

danny likes stars, likes how far away they are and how they twinkle, and one day when he's very big and not so bad he wants to get in a rocket ship and fly away. he'll live on a star and nothing will ever hurt again and he'll be a cool captain like Captain Kirk on _Star Trek_.

but what if it's a trick? a lie? a _where is my danny I'll make you hurt give you drugs make you suffer_?

no.

ms. penny won't do that.

she _won't_.

and danny opens his eyes and looks and there they are, _space pjs_, and they have _rockets_ on them just like ms. penny said. danny reaches out and he traces one and the pjs are soft under his fingers, and he thinks they look so nice and he can't help but wonder why ms. penny and mr. walker are so nice to him. he made mommy and daddy hate him when they loved him lots, so why don't they?

it's all very confusing and danny's head hurts so he just smiles even though it feels like his cheeks are split wide open and keeps tracing the ship.

"Do you like them?"

danny nods because they're _amazing_ and ms. penny says they're _his_.

it's been a very long time since he's been allowed to wear pjs.

there's another kiss on his cheek and he's being carried again and ms. penny is humming. she's got a pretty voice. it makes him sleepy.

"Okay, so he's a meat-headed idiot, but apparently his wife has good taste. The space pjs were a hit."

mr. walker says something and danny realizes they're in a bathroom and didn't ms. penny say something about taking a bath earlier? doesn't know. too tired. head hurts.

"Alright, quit jawin' an' let's get to washin'. I'd like to go to bed 'fore tomorrow mornin'."

he's got such a funny way of talking but danny kind of likes it, the way it turns up at the edges and makes the words sound long. aunt alicia talks like that. except her r sounds are different and they don't growl quite so much.

ms. penny sits down and danny thinks he's _finally _going to get to sleep and then she starts to pull him _away_. no no no no please don't, let him stay, he'll be very. good. he'll try so hard. honest honest he means it, ms. penny, don't make him leave. . .

his chest is tight and there's something on his cheeks again and danny doesn't know if he's going to just cry or scream until everything falls apart. but then ms. penny smiles at him and her thumbs wipe at his cheeks and they come back _green again_, but she's talking and danny just can't do it anymore, so he relaxes and listens.

"Shhh, sweetie, it's alright. We have to give you a bath, and we can't do that if you're stuck to me like a monkey, now, can we?"

danny takes a deep breath. it burns. but he shakes his head and ms. penny's smile gets a bit wider.

"Now, is it okay if we take this jumpsuit off? Then we can get you all clean and in your new pjs. How does that sound?"

danny thinks it sounds too good to be true. but he nods his head because ms. penny asked very nicely and his jumpsuit is sticky when they try to take it off and it pulls on his scars and that _hurts_ but ms. penny and mr. walker always say they're sorry, and they're very gentle and then danny is being put into an actual _tub_ and. . .

it's _warm_.

it's been so long since he's been warm.

the water is warm and there's dirt and some green stuff coming off of him, and it makes little swirls on the top of the water. the patterns are kind of pretty. and even though mr. walker's face looks like he's very very sad-mad about something, danny is too tired to make any sense of it and there's a _boat_ in the water. it looks just like his. red and yellow and blue and he tries to remember the sounds a tug-boat makes.

tug-a-tug-a-toot maybe?

his throat won't make the sounds. but he plays and he's got _toys_ and this is. . . he doesn't even know anymore.

ms. penny puts something rough on his back and it tingles and kind of burns and danny flinches. but she keeps talking to him and her voice is very quiet and danny realizes she's just washing him. the water is getting all dirty. it's not so clear anymore. not even the bubbles are white. and mr. walker helps scrub his arms and he's very careful around where mommy used to stick the needles in, and then they try to wash the letter on his chest, the big scar that aches and aches and _aches_ and danny flinches, he can't help it.

but they keep trying and are very gentle, ms. penny talking the whole time, and soon there's hands on his head, someone telling him to keep his eyes closed why they feel so empty so achy so leaky? and there's shampoo running over his cheeks. there's a cut near his temple and the soap burns it but it's a good kind of burn, danny thinks, because he's actually getting _clean_.

he will never be mad about bath time again.

they rinse and they rinse and they rinse and then ms. penny tells him that he can open his eyes again, and he gets wrapped in a very fluffy towel that feels like a cloud and he feels so _clean_. he doesn't remember when he was last allowed to be this clean.

"Good job, Danny. You were so very, very brave, big man. I'm so _proud_ of you."

she's. . . she's proud of him?

danny knows he's a bad boy, knows he shouldn't be allowed nice things like tug-boats and baths and space pjs. but ms. penny doesn't seem to care and she's _proud of him_ and it makes his chest feel all tingly and his head feel all confused and he can't seem to do anything but smile even though his cheeks feel all wrong and his temples ache and his head is

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down the river.

mr. walker and ms. penny help him into his new pjs and they're soft cotton and they don't tug at his scars and they don't rub very hard and danny doesn't think he's ever going to be able to stop smiling. his finger traces a rocket and he thinks that it looks too skinny but he's too scared to look in the mirror 'cause his hair had been _white _in the tub and that's not right. so it's better to not see and not know and just look at his rockets.

rockets are nice.

"Do ya like 'em, kid?"

mr. walker usually scares him when he talks, but danny is too happy to care. so he looks up and keeps smiling. and mr. walker's face kinda looks like a skull still, all white and glowing, but when he smiles it's not so scary. not so scary at all.

"Tommy liked rockets when he was your age. Liked stars an' space. Maybe we'll go out and I'll teach ya 'bout constellations sometime."

there's something warm in his chest and in his tummy and danny nods again, can't stop smiling, and ms. penny hugs him.

maybe. . .

"You've had a long day, little man. Why don't we go to bed? We'll find you a teddy bear and read you a bedtime story. How does that sound?"

danny sniffles, smiles, nods.

ms. penny hums as she takes him to bed, says they'll read him a story and find him a teddy bear and they _do_, a fluffy gray one with big eyes that he squeezes tight, and danny falls asleep against her, mr. walker reading in his very rough voice.

maybe. . .

_he's not a bad boy after all?_

~*O*~

Penelope closed the door to Danny's bedroom and fought the urge to scream, swear, and punch someone very hard in the face.

In that goddamn order.

"If I ever find whoever did that to the kid, I'm fucking _murdering _someone," she muttered. "Jesus Christ, I don't even_ like_ kids. What the fuck is this nonsense?"

"How many times am I gonna have to tell you to watch yer mouth? Lord Almighty, it ain't punctuation!"

Okay, for someone that large and with that much of a need to step into everyone's business, he was _far _too good at sneaking up on her. Penelope startled, only just managing to avoid making noise before rounding on the warden. Or, at least, she had intended to round on the warden. Her mind went a little bit (or a lot of bit) blank instead.

He was leaning in the doorway, face contorted in its usual scowl, arms crossed. Except he wasn't in his suit anymore. Walker was wearing _pajamas_. A pair of loose flannel bottoms in red, white, and blue plaid and a fucking _tank top_. His hair was dark and loose, longer at the top and close-cropped on the sides. She hadn't noticed how thick it was until, you know, he was lounging in the door to her room like some kind of sadistic, swear-hating wraith. . .

"What, y'all lost that smart mouth of yers? Have I broken ya?"

Walker was sneering now, and he uncrossed his arms and, _holy shit_, his biceps were the size of her fucking _head._

_Alright, that's enough of that, bitch, you're making yourself look bad. _

Penelope ground her teeth together and stepped towards where the warden stood.

"No. I just didn't know you anything other than a three-piece suit from the '20s," she snapped. "Now would you kindly get out of the door of my room? I need to change and swear in peace."

Rolling his eyes, Walker pushed off the wall and, oh holy hell, she was in trouble. His muscles _rippled_. What the fuck kind of man had muscles that legitimately _rippled_?! How fucking dare he be chiseled and obnoxious! It wasn't fair – this game was rigged. She was filing a complaint with. . . she didn't know who she'd complain to, but _someone _had just acquired themselves a new asshole.

"I'll leave y'all to change. But I need ta go over house rules with ya. Meet me in the kitchen when you're decent."

It was not a question. Or a polite request. Or even a suggestion. Walker growled it out as an order, and this may have been his house, but that was just plain _rude_.

Penelope rolled her eyes and stomped into the bedroom. And she did _not _watch the way Walker's stupid shoulders rolled as he made his way towards the stairs, fuck you very much. She had her dignity, dammit.

The door closed with a quiet _snik_! and she scanned the room a bit more closely than she had at first glance. She hadn't noticed how well thought-out everything was, how well-arranged the furniture was. It wasn't excessively large; however, Walker had thought to maximize the space. Bed length-wise next to the wall. Dressers built into their own alcoves. No excessive clutter.

Dammit, she was respecting him and that was _not how this game went_.

Penelope scowled. Swore. Then proceeded to search the room from top to bottom looking for her suitcase because Bullet was a fucking nuisance. She should've stabbed him. With a fucking spoon. Maybe took out his other eye. Oh, well, tasks for later. Delegation of time was important, and right now Danny took priority.

Eventually, she managed to find her things stuffed in the far corner under the bed, and she conveniently "forgot" the no-powers rule to phase the damned thing through the mattress. Forget giving Walker to Klemper – Bullet was going head-first through _that _door. Grumbling quiet curses to herself, Penelope was none too gentle in ripping open the heavy suitcase that Bertrand had, apparently, packed for her.

Of _course_ he had.

Penelope tried to ignore the surge of dread in her stomach and rifled through the mountain of clothes in the case, eventually coming across her favorite tank and a pair of thick green pajama pants. She pulled them on and didn't stop swearing the entire time. Because of fucking _course_ Bertrand had remembered all her favorites, had packed everything she would possibly need neatly and correctly. Had gotten all her toiletries put together in record time.

All with a subtle _I'm watching you _resting just under the surface.

"Of fucking _course_," Penelope muttered, viciously running a comb through her hair as she did so. "Can't forget that he's _always _fucking watching, Penny."

Goosebumps ran up and down her spine. She brushed them off, straightened her tank top – decided to leave the bra on for now, couldn't scandalize him that badly yet – and stalked downstairs. The house was quiet. But not the eerie sort of quiet she was accustomed to from the rest of the Zone. This was the kind of quiet found more normally in the human world, in the places where stars dotted the skies and houses had miles of land between them.

She wondered how he'd managed to replicate that.

Stepping into the kitchen, Penelope fully expected to be detained like she would be in the prison. Walker sitting and glaring at the table, hands folded, posture statue-stiff.

What she got was Walker kicked back in a chair, a half-empty bottle of scotch and a tumbler with ice sitting in front of him. The second one was already close to gone. It was a miracle the damn thing hadn't shattered with the force of his grip.

"Have a seat," the warden growled. "Y'all drink bourbon?"

. . . okay so he couldn't be _that_ bad. Still an asshole, sure. But not all bad.

Penelope snatched up the tumbler and tossed the ice down the drain. Then she sat down, poured two fingers worth of booze, and took a long pull. It burned like hellfire. But bourbon tended to do that, so she just powered through until the glass was empty.

Walker was staring like she'd grown a second head.

"What?" Penelope snapped. "Never seen a woman drink before?"

"Yer liver must've hated you," the warden snorted. "That stuff's enough ta knock me flat on my rear. Y'all shouldn't 'a been able to knock it back like ya did."

She rolled her eyes and poured another finger. "Yeah, well, here the hell we are. Now, get on with these rules you're so damn fond of. I want to go to bed."

Walker visibly bristled. But he didn't say anything about her language. So that was. . .

"Yer deliberately pressin' my buttons, but we've both had a long day, so I'll let this 'un slide. For now."

Shit.

"Now, most of my rules in the house are fer the kids," Walker drawled lazily, taking a long pull on his drink. "Keeps 'em safe, keeps me sane. Came up with the 'no powers in the house' one when Ember nearly burned the place down."

Okay, that she understood. Penelope nodded, savoring this glass instead of just downing it. Her head was already light. Didn't need a hangover tomorrow. Not with Danny still so fragile.

"Then why the hell do _I _have to follow them?" she griped. "I'm a grown woman."

"Exactly!" Walker growled. "You're an adult and you _will_ lead by example. Or I'll beat it in yer head 'til you do."

Penelope rolled her eyes for about the thousandth time that day. "Like I didn't know _that _already," she grumbled. "Fine, whatever, just tell me the damn rules so I can go to sleep."

Again, she expected a growl. Disapproval. Furrowed eyebrows and a scowl that would make the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. What she got was a man staring into the bottom of his glass, eyes glazed and shoulders hunched. A hand running through his thick hair until it stood in tufts. His fingers were shaking.

Penelope couldn't blame him. Not one bit.

"How the hell are we supposed to sleep?" Walker croaked. "How the _hell. . . ?_"

"Don't." Penelope took another long pull. "Just don't. We'll be here all goddamn night."

Walker nodded. Gulped down another mouthful of bourbon. "Yer right. Shouldn' go down that road. Ain't nothin' but bad down that 'un." He cracked his neck and she watched the cords of muscle. "Ya already know the first rule."

Penelope snorted. "Let me guess: no swearing?"

"See? Y'all can remember it. Why don'tcha follow it?"

"'cause it's fuckin' stupid. Next rule."

This time, he growled just like she wanted him to. Wait, wanted him to? Shit, she was getting drunk. Damn bourbon. . . Kryptonite for alcoholics was what it was. Not that she was an alcoholic. She was _Irish_, dammit, they were supposed to be able to hold their liquor.

All she was holding was a half-empty tumbler and the idea that his arms were _yummy_.

"No powers in the house."

"Got that, next."

"Everyone eats at the table, and no one leaves until everyone's done. Keeps us all together in one place, least three times a day."

Made sense. Required communication. "Alright, I can do that as long as you aren't being a moron. Next."

"Knock before entering a room, even if the door is open. You eat what's put in front of you, even if you ain't particular to it. Bedtime is nine, not eight. You respect other people, and yer language should reflect that – that includes back-sass. An' the most importan' rule of all is _no lying_. We tell the truth in this house. Lyin' don' bring nothin' but trouble."

_Lying doesn't bring anything but trouble, Penelope, especially when you're lying to __**me**_.

There was something cold running down her spine, and the tumbler in Penelope's hand shattered, ectoplasm and bourbon spilling all over the table. She cursed, loudly, and came close to tumbling out of the chair. But before she could do much (besides swear) Walker was around the table, wrapping a towel around her hand, and dragging her to the sink.

"God Almighty, woman, you tryin' ta give me a coronary?!"

No, she hadn't been. But she'd been caught off-guard and slightly drunk by the last rule and shit just kind of happened. Thankfully, Penelope had consumed enough alcohol to take the edge off her pain. But it still stung like a motherfucker. And her drunk ass couldn't focus on anything except the way Walker's biceps rippled under his skin.

"Well, thank y'all for the compliment, but do I wanna know why ya shattered one of my glasses?"

Shit, had she said all that out loud?

"Yeah, ya did, sugar. I think y'all need to go to bed. Sleep it off."

Penelope scowled and, no, she did _not _focus on how gentle he was when he pulled the glass out of her hand. The wounds sealed quickly – she wasn't going to bleed out – but Walker made sure to run his fingers over where they used to be, just to be sure that everything was alright.

"Your hands are so rough."

She couldn't stop herself.

Shockingly enough, Walker laughed. "They ain't for modelin', that's for sure! I use 'em to work with. Get a job done – don't have to look good while you're doin' it."

Shit – his laugh was hot.

That wasn't even _remotely_ fucking fair.

Penelope jerked her hand away from the warden, rubbing at the spot he'd held to get rid of the tingly sensation left behind. "Thanks, Tex. But if you don't have any more rules, I'm going the hell to bed. I'll see you in the morning."

She had never managed to drunk-escape a room without flying so fast in her fucking _afterlife. _

It didn't make listening to Walker chuckle any easier.

~*O*~

Walker cleaned up the mess that Spectra had left behind and tried not to grin.

The woman might've been about thirty-thousand different kinds of a pain in the rear, but Lord if she wasn't a funny drunk. The _mouth_ on her! He'd never heard anything like the blue-streak she'd let out when the tumbler shattered, and considering he'd lived with Johnny for nearly three years, that was _saying_ something.

Still, it was a little concerning that she'd done it right as he'd gone into the rule about lying.

Humming in thought, the warden swept the shards into a plastic bucket before throwing the whole thing in the trash. Spectra was many things but, up to this point, he'd never really thought about _why_ she was all those things. And, to a degree, it had never really mattered until the moment her fist had clenched hard enough to push glass through her palm.

Walker took the bottle off the table and trudged over to the liquor cabinet, putting the offending liquid back in its proper spot before locking everything up tight. It was routine, and going through the motions of it all soothed him.

Maybe it had been about Danny. Indignity at the insinuation that she'd lie to him. Or maybe it was something else. Her expression had shut down earlier when Bullet had mentioned that blobby little fool Bertrand. He couldn't blame her. Spectra had a reputation, but Bertrand had been around for _much_ longer than her, skulking in corners and weaseling his way through the seedier parts of the Zone. Thinking about some of the rumors surrounding that little creep made Walker shudder.

God, he shouldn't have drug out the bourbon.

He was thinking nonsense again.

Walker ground his teeth, making sure all the ectoplasm had been scrubbed away before shutting off the lights and heading up to bed. He was exhausted. Worn to a frazzle and pushed to the edge of his patience and anxious for a kid the likes of which he'd never seen before. But he just _knew_ he wasn't going to sleep at all tonight.

Or for several nights, actually.

He just kept picturing those scars, raised and ropey and livid against that little boy's skin. Ribs and vertebrae and hollow, empty eyes. A smile that didn't believe it deserved _any _form of decency.

Everything settled like a rock in the pit of his stomach, and Walker couldn't let this one go.

Johnny had had a daddy that liked to beat his momma. Ember's boyfriend had cheated, so she'd gone and set herself on fire to make him remember what he'd done. Youngblood had died in a car-crash, clutching his puppy Bones to his chest. Finding out about each one had set his teeth on edge.

But _nothing_ could have prepared him for this.

Walker made it up the stairs, still scrubbing a hand down his face, when something caught his attention. A sound. Quiet, just on the edge of his hearing. But familiar to someone who'd ever heard it before. The warden turned and headed towards the end of the hall, knocking gently before opening the door to Danny's room.

The little boy was sitting up in bed, curled at the very end and rocking himself, wrapped up tight in his blankets. Walker caught just the barest hint of green peeking out at him. But he could visibly see Danny shaking, his thin frame trembling with nerves. He could hear how ragged the kid's breathing was from the doorway, how close he was to hyperventilating.

_Keep your voice quiet, ask permission, don't touch him if he doesn't want you to_. Rules of Engagement – the Danny Edition.

"Danny? Punk, you alright?"

Danny let out a tiny squeak. The shaking got worse.

Walker entered the room quietly and sat on the floor, far enough away that the kid didn't feel crowded but close enough to take action if he needed to. Danny peeked out at him through the blankets. His eyes – eye sockets? – shone brightly in the dark.

"Y'all have a nightmare, kiddo?"

The tremors slowed to something much less concerning, and Danny managed a slight, jerky nod. Walker propped his elbow up on a knee, watching carefully.

"Want me to stay in here until you can go back to sleep?"

Danny's head poked out from under the blankets, and his white hair stuck out in about ten different directions. It would've been comical if his expression wasn't so dang _hopeful_. The little boy nodded again, scooting a bit closer to where Walker was sitting. The floor was cool, and his rear was going numb, but it didn't particularly matter. Because this kid _needed_ him to be here, _needed_ to have someone in his corner.

If no one else in the Zone would be in his corner, Jeremiah Walker would.

"Alrighty, then. Y'all want me on the floor or in the bed? It don't matter to me."

_Please say floor. Please say floor. Please say floor._

Danny swallowed, and Walker watched his little throat work convulsively. It looked painful. Very painful.

"Sleep bed? I be good, promise."

_Dangit_.

Walker nodded and stretched a bit, mentally preparing himself for the horrendous pain in his spine come morning. "Alright, punk. Scoot over some, I don't wanna squish ya."

The bunks were extra long just for this reason. Well, it had also come in handy with Johnny and Ember, seeing as how they'd been teens when they'd formed. But Youngblood – Taylor, to anyone with a lick of sense – had suffered _horrific_ nightmares, old enough to remember the exact incident that lead up to his death. Walker had spent many nights in these beds, bony knees and elbows pressed into his ribs and a kid breathing down his neck.

Danny pressed himself so far against the back wall it was a miracle he didn't force himself right through it.

"Here, kiddo. Y'all don' have ta go quite that far." Walker let the boy move at his own pace, fighting the urge to close his eyes and snore until the heat-death of the universe. "Sleep where you're comfortable. You got enough blanket?"

It took a moment or two, but Danny was eventually curled tightly under his arm, face hidden and trembling against his chest. Walker cupped his hand to the back of the boy's head, gently ruffling his fluffy white hair.

"You're gonna be just fine, punk," Walker whispered. "I ain't goin' nowhere. No one's gonna get you here. Alright?"

Danny hiccupped. Nodded. Eventually, after what had to have been an hour, the boy drifted off to sleep. He'd curled into a ball facing away from Walker. But the warden's fingers were clutched tight in a little hand, the boy's thin face pressed so tightly in his bicep that nothing could be seen but just the edge of a jagged cheekbone and an ear, a bit over-large. It struck him then, a lead punch to the diaphragm.

This was a _baby_.

Johnny had come to him with scars on his knuckles and gaps in his teeth, remnants of street fights and beat-downs with his daddy. Had come to him with jaded eyes and a nasty cigarette addiction, a need to reject other men so strongly it bordered on desperate. Had come to him with a shadow that created bad luck and a love for motorcycles that ran deep enough to help Walker break through. Johnny had been eighteen.

Ember had come to him with a black eye and a broken heart, a need to be recognized and remembered that would never leave her. Had come to him after setting herself _on fire_ with nothing but a wicked temper and an electric guitar. Had come to him with a mean-streak wider than her backside and a chip on her shoulder only fixed after about two years of dedication. Ember had been sixteen.

Taylor – Youngblood, it didn't matter the moniker – had come to him with bucked teeth, two missing limbs, and a spirit so ornery it'd put a mule to shame. Had come to him with nightmares and defiance and practical jokes, a loud mouth his mama should've washed out with soap. Had come to him wary and imaginative and bold and everything that a little boy could possibly be, grew to be self-sustaining even though he still liked to sleep-over every now and again. Taylor had been ten.

But _Danny_?

Danny was small and scared and scarred. Had come to him with no eyes and no voice, nothing but the ragged jumpsuit on his back and abject terror in his chest. He hadn't had _time_ to get scars on his knuckles, to form a chip on his shoulder, to have a smart mouth. Danny was _four years old_ and he _died_ and what the heck was Walker supposed to do to fix that?

The warden clenched his jaw and stared at the bunk above him.

_Y'all better pray that I don't find you_. . .

Spectra had suspected that it was his parents. That it was the people the little boy was meant to love and trust the most.

_This is my boy now. . . _

Danny shuddered in his sleep, curled in on himself tighter. Walker shushed him gently, let the little body tuck further into his chest and cling tight. The air was silent except for the sound of breathing. Harsh and loud in his ears.

_I'll kill you for hurtin' him. . . _

"You're gonna be jus' fine, kiddo."

_I promise. _

"Just fine."


	5. Chapter 5

Walker woke with bony elbows in his ribs, Danny snoring quietly, and he was pretty sure that he was going to be paralyzed from the waist down if he had to spend one more night in these evil beds.

Why? Why would he offer to sleep here?

He stared up at the top bunk for a long second, contemplating his poor life choices. Oh-six-hundred – what a way to start a morning. Walker couldn't help but snort at himself for complaining. God Almighty, how many times had Taylor woken him before four? Of course, that had been nearly a decade ago. Time moved a bit differently in the Zone, but ten years had been enough to make him soft.

Back to the grindstone, so to speak.

Walker glanced down at the little boy tucked into his side. Danny was still curled in on himself, a tight fetal position to protect his middle. He couldn't see the boy's face, just the top of his fluffy white head. The rest was shielded by the comforter, pressed against Walker's ribs along with those dadgum elbows. Kid's nose was _freezing_.

Ice-jockey for sure, Walker mused, but that would come later.

"C'mon, son, I gotta make breakfast," he rasped. "Wake up, kiddo."

Walker gently ran a hand along Danny's back. But it wasn't gentle enough. Wasn't quiet enough.

The little boy startled awake. Violently. He shot away from Walker's hold, faster than his wasted frame should have been able to move. Hyperventilating, trembling hard enough to make his bones rattle. He slammed harshly into the back wall. The force knocked the wind from his lungs, leaving nothing but a shivering, gasping skeleton of a boy wrapped in a blanket.

Walker cursed himself and silently vowed to skin whoever did this to the punk.

Promises and vows wouldn't do anything about the current situation, though.

"Hey, hey, hey!" the warden called, keeping his voice low. "It's alright! Danny, do you remember me?"

The boy sucked in another breath through his teeth. Wrapped tighter in the blanket and began rocking. Walker tracked the movement silently – Taylor used to do something similar when he'd had a nightmare. Best thing to do would be to keep talking and not touch the kid until he was ready. Or, at least, he _hoped _that was the best thing to do.

He would've woken up Spectra, but that would mean admitting he couldn't handle a panic attack. Which wasn't entirely true – Ember and Danny both had done that plenty when they'd lived here – but the thought still made his skin itch.

Admitting _anything _to that woman would be like shooting himself in the foot and running into a Behemoth lair. _Stupid_.

"Danny? Kiddo, can y'all look at me?"

Another gasp. But Danny managed to lift his head from the blankets, teeth chattering in his jaw. Those eyes peeked up at him, ectoplasm swirling like a plasma-storm, and Walker only just managed to keep his expression somewhat neutral when he caught the abject terror in Danny's expression. No kid should ever look at an adult that way. It was sick.

"Danny, I need ya to listen very carefully, can you do that?"

The little boy's teeth-chattering tremors lessened somewhat. He managed to nod, white hair long enough to almost mask his pseudo-eyes.

"Good. In this house, _no one_ will ever hurt you." Walker kept his voice low, but his tone was firm. "You're my boy now, and that means I'll keep y'all safe. That's what an adult's s'pposed to do, right?"

Danny swallowed thickly. It seemed he choked on a sob.

"I bad," he rasped, sandpaper on cement. "I sorry."

Whoever did this was going to die a slow, horrible death – he'd make sure of it.

"No, Danny," Walker refuted gently. "You ain't bad. Bad kids don't follow the rules like you have. I think you're a very good boy. So you ain't got nothin' to be sorry for."

The trembling was starting to slow, the tempo of his rocking less frantic. "No hurt? No 'speer-a-mens?"

Speer-a-mens? What in Hades did that. . .?

Walker felt his core leap into his mouth when the words clicked. Had they actually treated this kid like some sort of _lab rat_?! He'd heard tell and experienced parts of history that were far less than savory. But this hearkened back to the '40's. Visions of ghosts with exposed ribs and bloated bellies, sores on skin and deformed feet from wooden shoes floated in his mind. The warden had to swallow back his own revulsion, fighting to keep anything from showing on his face. Poker was his game, but dang if this wasn't a doozy of a challenge.

"No, Danny. _No one _will ever hurt you again. Not while me or Penelope are around. Got that?" Walker leaned a little closer but took care to maintain a bit of distance. "I'm here ta keep ya safe. No one's hurting anyone 'round here. Y'all can talk an' wear what ya want an' eat 'cause that's what little boys are s'pposed ta do. Understand?"

Danny froze, eyes wide and disbelieving, and Walker had never wanted to murder someone he'd never met so much in his life _or _afterlife.

"I. . . I talk?" the little boy questioned softly. "No yell?"

Walker shook his head. "Not a chance, punk. I won't yell at ya."

"P'omise?"

It was the first time in almost 48 hours that Danny had actually _requested_ something. Walker was generally opposed to making promises to kids. Promises were sacred things. They bound you at your word, and if you didn't honor them, it meant your word was nothing. And kids, most often, requested promises that were too-easily broken. But _this _little boy. . . all he wanted was no yelling. No hurting. No experiments.

Things he shouldn't _have _to require a promise to ensure.

Walker couldn't turn that away.

"I promise. Now, y'all wanna get dressed? After that, you can help me make breakfast in the kitchen. Mama always said breakfast was the most important meal of the day."

His mama was hardly ever wrong when it came to stuff like that, and Walker couldn't help but return the shy smile Danny offered him. Moving slow – partially out of pain, partially to keep the boy calm – Walker crawled out of the bottom bunk. He landed on the floor and sat cross-legged for a second, trying to ignore how sore his lower back was.

Danny, surprisingly, crawled to the edge of the bed and watched him.

"Alright, punk, what d'ya say we get'cha into some clothes?"

Walker wasn't expecting a verbal response. And his expectations were not shattered. Danny nodded carefully, still watching with those eerie pseudo-eyes as the warden groaned his way to a standing position and rifled through the mountain of clothes Lydia had saved. Baby Jesus, how many pairs of socks did one kid _need?!_

Finally, he settled on a standard pair of denim overalls and a white shirt, red around the sleeves and collar. He wouldn't bother with shoes or socks just yet. No point – kid couldn't walk anyhow. And besides, it was probably best not to overwhelm him with everything at once.

"What d'ya think, kid?"

Danny's smile widened, and his nod was borderline enthusiastic. Walker considered that a win for the century. Satisfied (and a bit smug that he'd managed all of this _by himself_), the warden set about dressing the little boy for the day. It was no easier looking at those scars a second go-round, and he doubted it'd be any easier the hundredth time. But he muddled through, finally getting Danny's stick-thin arms through his shirt and buttoning the straps on his overalls. They were a bit baggy even though they were meant for a two or three-year-old. But the length was alright, and Danny liked them. He'd gone and wrapped up in that blanket again; however, Walker decided it was likely a comfort thing.

So, in his mind, it didn't matter all that much.

Walker remembered to ask permission before scooping the kid up, settling his skinny-self comfortably in the crook of one arm. He used to do this with Bullet's kid until he'd gone and grown up on everyone. Taylor had been more partial to shoulder rides; something told him Danny wouldn't be ready for that for a long while yet.

The house was quiet, and he didn't dare try to check on Spectra. If she was a pain in the neck when she was sober, he didn't want to think about what she'd be like hung-over and madder than a wet hen. So he bypassed the guest room and made his way down to the kitchen, flipping on the light as he went.

"Alright, kiddo, what d'ya want for breakfast?" Walker questioned. "I'm thinkin' pancakes. Maybe some oatmeal."

Danny's fingers were cold on his collar-bone, toying gently with the fabric of his tank. But the little boy hummed quietly, nodding, and that was all the answer that Walker needed.

"Good. Y'all want to sit on the counter while I make 'em? You can help me make the batter if ya want."

God Almighty, he'd never get over how dadgum _hopeful_ the kid looked over certain things. Danny looked like Christmas had come early, grinning up at him around that blanket. His white hair was sticking out in big tufts all over his little head. Had it not been for all the scars, how thin his face was, the expression would've been downright adorable.

Not that Walker was an expert in such things. . .

Very carefully, Walker set the little boy on the countertop, trusting that he wouldn't move or touch anything. Had it been any other kid, he wouldn't have turned his back. As it was, Danny was content to sit on the countertop, wrapped up in his blanket and watching with frank curiosity. He glanced at the clock – 0730. Perfect time for pancakes. Maybe some eggs if they were feeling it.

As Walker got all the ingredients together, he hummed some country song he'd heard from a confiscated radio, lyrics playing quietly in his head.

_I walk through the valley of the shadow of death. And I fear no evil because I'm blind to it all. In my mind and my gun, they comfort me. 'cause I know I'll kill my enemies when they come. . . _

He began mixing the batter, still humming, and grinned when Danny leaned in closer to get a better look. "Ya wanna help, punk?"

Timid, Danny nodded.

"Alrighty, then. C'mere, an' I'll show ya how."

The little boy pushed the blanket off his shoulders and shuffled a bit, allowing Walker to set the mixing bowl in front of him. He guided the kid's hands as they mixed, making sure none of the still-dry flour got onto the blanket or countertop. Danny actually managed to _giggle _when he added the milk, only for his expression to freeze in horror, eyes wide as his shoulders hunched in on themselves.

"Hey, bud, it's alright," Walker soothed. "Y'all can laugh as much as ya want."

Danny glanced up at him through a curtain of white hair. "No bad?"

"Nope. You laugh and talk and ask as many questions as ya want, an' no one here's gonna call ya bad for it. I promise. Understand?"

There was fear lingering in his bright green eyes, but Danny didn't dissolve into a panic attack. There was no rocking or hyperventilating. So that was good at least. The little guy swallowed thickly, and it looked like he was trying to piece everything together. Gently, Walker ruffled his hair, making sure he didn't startle the kid when he did so.

"You'll figure it all out. Don't worry."

They finished mixing the batter in comfortable silence, Walker still humming the song from earlier, occasionally whispering some of the lyrics as he worked. He took care to make sure Danny was far enough away from the burners when he turned on the stovetop, flicking a pat of butter onto the skillet to keep everything from sticking.

_Surely goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life. And I will dwell on this earth forevermore. So I walk beside the still waters and they restore my soul, but I know that when I die my soul is damned. . . _

"What shape do ya want yer pancake in, punk?" he asked.

Danny hummed in thought, snuggling deeper into his cocoon. Then he glanced up, voice a bit more confident than it had been before. "Rockets?"

Rockets, huh? Well, he'd never made a rocket-shaped pancake. But there was a first time for everything. He turned to face the kid and give him his full attention. Seemed like the decent thing to do.

"Y'all want a rocket?"

Danny's smile was small and heart-breaking, scared to hope. His shoulders hunched in on themselves a little. That would never do. He poured the batter, managing to keep everything in a somewhat rocket-like shape. Couldn't make a perfect one. But at least they'd taste good. He waited a few minutes, waiting for the bubbles to form around the edges. Then he turned to look at the boy again.

"Alright, then, kiddo. Wanna help me flip it? Or y'all just wanna watch?"

The little boy pulled his blanket tighter around his shoulders a bit. But his smile widened, and he nodded towards the spatula that Walker was gripping. A burst of pride. Carefully, Walker scooped the kid off the countertop, allowing him to rest in the crook of his elbow. It took a short second to maneuver Danny's thin fingers into position around the spatula, and the warden kept a firm hold in order to help keep everything from going south.

"Now, just slide it under and give 'er a twist," he directed. "Gently, though."

He could see Danny's tongue poking out between his lips, brow furrowed in concentration as his wrist flicked at the spatula. It turned beautifully, cooked like a charm, and Walker couldn't help but grin at the pride that flashed through the kid's eyes.

"Good job, kid. Wanna sit back down?"

Danny nodded. Walker sat him on the countertop again, tiny feet peeking out from beneath the blanket, and the little guy actually _smiled_. It was genuine, thankful. And Walker cursed himself internally for returning it because, dangit, he was going _soft. _Soft did not work for a warden.

But, looking at this kid humming in his blanket, he decided that soft might just work with Danny.

"Well, isn't _this_ just a Hallmark moment?"

. . . there went his good mood.

The sing-song tone came from behind him, and Walker berated himself silently for not hearing Spectra coming downstairs. He turned to shoot her a glare over his shoulder, hands frozen. And he managed to keep the scowl going. Even though warning claxons were glaring in his head. Because holy _crap_, the woman was smirking up at him, green eyes dancing, and he hadn't realized how horribly _weak_ he was.

She was built like a brick outhouse, clad in a pair of yoga pants and a tunic-top, hair falling in her face, and Jeremiah Walker came to the sudden, gut-wrenching realization that he was in Trouble. Capitalization non-optional.

"Hi!"

Danny's voice erupted beside him, small but excited, and he turned to see the kid smiling. Walker returned to the pancakes. And if he flipped them with more force than was absolutely necessary, that was no one's business but his. He'd caught how Spectra's expression softened. Tried to ignore how she smelled like fresh shampoo as she sauntered over to them.

"Well, hello there! Are you having fun?"

Her voice was genuine, curious, and Walker wondered how she could adore the kid so much when she _literally ate misery_. Danny nodded, rocking a bit in his blanket cocoon, and hummed in affirmation.

"We makin' rockets."

Christ, that was cute.

Not that he'd ever admit it.

Spectra was smiling so wide it was wonder she hadn't hurt herself. She reached out a pointer finger and tapped the kid on the nose, and somehow her smile managed to widen when Danny giggled softly. With a gentle question, she'd managed to pick the kid up – blanket and all – and settled him on her hip. Danny snuggled against her happily.

Which wasn't precious at all. Nope, not in the slightest.

"You've been a busy little boy this morning!" Her voice was dripping enthusiasm despite its low volume. "Did you have a good night?"

Crap – shouldn't 've asked that.

Walker could see Danny's smile drop out of the corner of his eyes, silently pleading to the good Lord that he wouldn't mention anything about their sleeping arrangements. Even though he wanted the kid to feel better.

"I gots nightmares," the boy near-whispered. "Slept wif' Mr. Walker."

Dang it.

Spectra blinked in surprise, glancing up towards him with a questioning expression. He could feel his shoulders tightening, and he tried to ignore the pain that still flared in his lower back. Danny had stiffened in his blanket, staring up at the woman holding him with a frightened, pleading expression. This was ridiculous. If she couldn't get over her own prejudices against him for Danny, then. . .

The smile returned, and Spectra bounced in place. "That's the funny thing about nightmares, baby. They're not so scary when you've got somebody nearby. Did you have anymore, or did they get better when Walker stayed with you?"

Dang – she was _good_.

At least Danny was smiling again. Even though Walker wanted to punch something. _Hard_.

"Got better. He scared 'em off."

Walker's ego got a bit of a boost at that. And then he caught sight of the wicked look in Spectra's eyes, the way her grin sharpened around the edges as she turned to him. His ego took a flying leap off a very tall cliff. It died a painful death along with his patience for the day. Well, patience for _her _at least.

"Well, then, it appears you _are _good for something, warden!" Spectra cooed, voice lilting and dripping honey. "Looks like that perma-scowl doesn't just scare off dates. You can use it on inmates _and _bad dreams."

_Do not blush. Do not blush. Do. Not. Blush!_

Growling, he narrowed his eyes in annoyance at her. "Keep talkin'. See if I feed yer sassy rear."

It was in that moment, he knew – he'd screwed up.

Spectra's grin widened, and the gleam in her eyes grew near-manic. He lost his battle with the blush, and heat spread across his cheeks and up his ears. This was _not _how he'd wanted to start his day with her. Walker decided he'd already lost the battle, returning to the pancakes and finishing up the oatmeal he'd started earlier. Maybe he'd add some blueberries? Blueberries were good. Not as good as raspberries, but those were out of season.

"Alright, big guy. Let's eat!" Spectra cheered. "You think you can handle eating part of a rocket? Or do you want to eat some oatmeal first?"

Walker plated a couple of pancakes and tuned out of the pair's conversation.

It was going to be a _long _day. . .

~*O*~

Penelope woke with a pounding headache, a dry mouth, and a whole fucking _heap _of regret.

She groaned quietly, pushing her face into the fluffy pillows and wondering what the hell Walker had put in that damn bourbon. It couldn't have been later than eight. Nine, maybe, and that was pushing it. Penelope didn't particularly care how she knew that little tidbit – being dead gave one a bit of an impressive internal clock – but she _did _care about being awake. With a hangover.

_At eight in the goddamn morning_.

There was a cheery, obnoxious little voice in the back of her head that told her to stop being a lazy bitch and get her ass out of bed. It sounded suspiciously like Bertrand. Which was annoying and concerning because how the _hell _was he getting in her head all the way out in the Zone-boonies? Whatever – she was too hung-over to think about shit this early.

Penelope groaned one more time before throwing back the duvet. She nearly yelped when the cold air hit her arms. Holy _shit_, why was it so fucking _cold_? She could feel the goosebumps rising along her limbs, crawling up her back, and Penelope hissed when her bare feet touched the hardwood.

Socks. Shower. Normal people clothes. Food.

In that fucking order.

Grumbling, swearing quietly, Penelope picked out an outfit that screamed "I'm lazing around the house today" and made her way towards the bathroom, a pair of her thickest socks sliding on the floor as she walked. Her eyes were dry, on fire, and her mouth felt like it'd been stuffed with cotton balls. Each step throbbed in her temples. But she'd suffered through far worse than a damn hangover, so she downed a glass of water and got in the shower, scrubbing down under a cool spray to wake her up a bit.

The water worked (somewhat) and soon Penelope was toweling off, legs newly smooth and hair hanging down in choppy waves around her face. Well, where it wasn't knotted around all those damn cow-licks. Grumbling, pissed-off and cold and still fucking hung-over, she worked a comb through the tangles. Did she want to fix her hair today?

Her stomach roared at her, for once actually craving normal food.

No – no she did fucking not want to fix her hair.

She shook the moisture from her head out one last time, practically yanking her shirt and pants on before stepping out of the bathroom. Something, though. . . something was off. She couldn't put a finger on it. But something wasn't normal. Well, as normal as she could tell, anyhow. They'd only been here, what, a day?

Penelope stood still and listened.

It was quiet. Very quiet. But there was the soft murmur of voices drifting up from the kitchen. Well, a voice, anyway. Walker's voice. Frankly, she was surprised she could hear him – baritone as his voice was, sometimes it was nearly impossible to catch from a distance. But in this house, in the quiet, it rang out like a bell.

Curious as to what he was doing, Penelope made her way downstairs. There weren't any lights on upstairs – not including the ones she'd not bothered to turn off – but there were lights on in the kitchen. It glowed brightly in the early morning dim. Penelope hissed. Shit, this wasn't doing her hangover any favors. In fact it was stabbing her hangover in the fucking cranium.

Why the _fuck_ did she care again?

"What shape do ya want yer pancake in, punk?"

. . . Danny was down here?

Penelope made it down the last few steps, making sure to keep her footsteps silent as she made her way around the corner. She hovered for a moment in the doorway, unsure. Because what if Walker was still in that damn tank-top? Alcohol made her less, you know, _graceful_ than usual. But those arms were just absolutely unfair, and she was hung-over, and she didn't know if she had the willpower to watch herself this morning.

"Rockets?"

Penelope stuck her head into the kitchen, gaping in astonishment at what she saw.

Walker was hovering over the stove, still in those goddamn pajamas. But he was talking quietly, and she could practically see his customary scowl as he poured batter into a skillet. Danny, though, was wrapped in a thick blanket and perched on the countertop, watching the warden with rapt attention. Ectoplasm threatened to creep down his cheeks. But, for some reason, it hadn't. He looked almost relaxed.

"Y'all want a rocket?" Walker asked, turning to look fully at the little boy.

A tiny, heart-wrenchingly hopeful smile crossed Danny's thin face. He nodded, shoulders hunching in on themselves. _Unconscious defensive body-language, likely verbally abused for long periods. . . _

"Alright, then, kiddo. Wanna help me flip it? Or y'all just wanna watch?"

The little boy pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders. But he didn't disappear into it, so there were already signs of progress. Penelope couldn't help it. She grinned when Danny nodded towards the spatula, and Walker plucked him from the countertop, big hands appearing even larger against the child's thin chest. He tucked Danny up against him, allowing the little boy to rest in the crook of his elbow as he handed off the spatula.

"Now, just slide it under and give 'er a twist. Gently, though."

This was fucking _gold_.

The big bad warden turned into a damn marshmallow for a four-year-old.

Shit, where the fucking hell was a camera when you needed one?

Penelope reclined against the door frame, arms crossed, and watched it all unfold. Walker helped Danny maneuver the spatula, big hand dwarfing the boy's thin digits as they shook. They flipped the pancake together, Danny still wrapped in his blanket, and it was perfect. Damn –she couldn't even boil water without burning her lair down. Where the fuck had _Walker _learned how to cook?

"Good job, kid. Wanna sit back down?"

She hadn't noticed before. Walker had _actually_ been paying attention to her when she talked to Danny. He was quiet. Asked permission. Kept his movements slow and broadcasted them well. Penelope caught her smile widening, and the moment she did, it dropped into a scowl. Because she was _proud _of him, damn it all, and that was _not_ how this shit was going to work! Not when it was Walker, with his stupid rules and his ridiculous Texas accent and his fucking Adonis-arms. . .

. . . fuck, she was doomed.

Walker had sat Danny back on the counter, his little feet just barely poking out from beneath his blanket cocoon. He was smiling. That little boy was _smiling_, and it felt like her heart was going to explode. Which was strange and foreign because Penelope was thought by many to be heartless. She wasn't. Pretty damn close in certain situations (mostly involving teens) but not fully.

Still, it wasn't like her to get attached to little kids. But here the fuck they were.

Penelope stepped fully into the kitchen, bare feet padding quietly on the hardwood. "Well, isn't _this _a Hallmark moment?"

Judging by the way his shoulders tensed, her barb hit the mark. Walker glared at her over his shoulder, hands not moving from the stovetop. Those damn muscles were mocking her. Because they were glorious. And beautiful. And they belonged to a fucking _prick_.

Danny, though, was all smiles. He rocked in his blanket cocoon, little head peeking out as he grinned up at her.

"Hi!"

The greeting was hoarse and rasping, timid as always, but so full of hope it made her want to simultaneously hold him to her chest and choke a bitch. Penelope ignored Walker in favor of Danny. The Lone Ranger got his fill of attention nearly every day – he could be overlooked for once. So she smiled at the little boy and walked over.

"Well, hello there! Are you having fun?"

Danny nodded, still a little apprehensive, but his hum of content was enough confirmation. "We makin' rockets."

It was quiet, so very quiet, but there was legitimate _confidence_ in that little voice now. Penelope felt like an idiot, grinning so wide her cheeks hurt, but it was worth it to witness that smile. She gently tapped Danny on his little button nose and he _giggled_ and it was quite possibly the cutest thing she'd ever bore witness to. _Ever_. Very carefully, she lifted him from the countertop, settling his slight weight comfortably on her hip and preening a little at the fact that he snuggled against her almost instantly.

"You've been a busy little boy this morning!" she chuckled. "Did you have a good night?"

The blanket wrapped a bit tighter around his little shoulders. Danny's smile dropped a bit, and he shrugged apprehensively. Dammit, and she'd been doing so _well_.

"I gots nightmares," the little boy whispered. "Slept wif Mr. Walker."

Okay – so _that _was unexpected.

Walker's shoulders were wound tighter than a two-inch spring, and he finished up the pancakes with quick, jerking flicks of his wrists. She probably could've bounced a quarter off one of those biceps. Maybe a half-dollar. . . _dammit_, it was happening again! Danny was still watching her, still tense, a tad frightened. So Penelope smiled at him, swaying in place.

"That's the funny thing about nightmares, baby," she explained. "They're not so scary when you've got somebody nearby. Did you have anymore, or did they get better when Walker stayed with you?"

Danny's smile returned, like the sun peeking out from behind a thunderhead. "Got better. He scared 'em off."

"Well, then, it appears you _are _good for something, warden!" She couldn't help it – the setup was just too damn perfect. "Looks like that perma-scowl doesn't just scare off dates. You can use it on inmates _and _bad dreams."

Walker's glare probably could've chipped cement. "Keep talkin', see if I feed yer sassy rear."

Oh, the _possibilities_!

But Danny was listening. . .

But it was _wide open_. . .!

Penelope settled for a good laugh at the warden's expense. And judging by the blush that crossed his cheeks, he'd figured out _exactly_ where he'd fucked up. Walker grumbled to himself, plating up a couple perfectly-cooked rocket pancakes and grabbing a small bowl of oatmeal that she hadn't noticed. Danny was still smiling, one little hand coming up to play with her hair as he snuggled against her collar-bone.

He was bony, startlingly light, and still panicked at the slightest provocation.

But he could still smile – and to Penelope, that spoke volumes about his resilience.

"Alright, big guy, let's eat!" she cheered. "You think you can handle eating part of a rocket? Or do you want to eat some oatmeal first?"

Danny bit his lip, forehead creased in concentration. Then he glanced up at her timidly. "O-meal?"

"You want some oatmeal first?" She was kind of shocked and a bit relieved; she didn't know if his stomach would handle something as rich as pancakes.

A nod, and Penelope couldn't help but press a quick kiss to the boy's nose. She relished the fact that he giggled at her. _Her_, not Warden Dick-head. She grinned, flouncing over to sit at the table while Walker got the rest of their breakfast ready.

"Well, then!" she gasped. "Oatmeal it is, little prince!"

Danny flushed at the new nickname, pale cheeks turning a light green. "I no prince," he rasped. "I ghost. Mommy said so."

Shit had hit the fan, and were she not trying to get a handle on her temper, Penelope would've wondered how Walker managed to get the little boy talking. She tensed, hands frozen on Danny's ribs. Her fingers fit in the divots between the bones. And here was this kid, this four-year-old, who was staring up at her like she had all the answers in the world. But she couldn't make her fucking brain work.

A plate with thick pancakes clunked onto the table before her, followed by a small bowl of oatmeal and blueberries.

"An' who says ghosts can't be princes, kid?" Walker growled. "Seems to me you could be both."

Danny huddled back into her again, little fingers winding gently into her hair as he thought. Penelope couldn't decide if she wanted to smile or scowl. Leave it to Walker to save her ass and make her look like an idiot in the same breath. Still, better not look a gift horse in the mouth.

"Walker's right, sweetie. Ghosts can be princes or princesses." God, the words – they _burned_. "Just like humans can be princes or princesses. Why do you think you can't be a ghost and a prince?"

His thin face scrunched in confusion, and Danny's hands tightened a bit. Not painfully. But enough to know he was getting nervous again. Penelope managed another smile and kissed him on the temple, coaxing the little boy to relax bit by bit.

"We'll talk some more later," she soothed. "How's that sound?"

The tension in Danny's tiny frame eased again. He nodded, content for the moment, and opened his mouth for the first spoonful of oatmeal. As she fed the little boy his breakfast, Penelope caught sight of Walker's expression. He'd hunched over his meal, stabbing into his pancakes and syrup viciously, and his expression probably could've give a gargoyle a run for its money.

She'd deal with that later.

Penelope hummed quietly and fed Danny a spoonful of oatmeal, watching his expression as he munched away. The little boy's face lit up with excitement, and she took note that he was much less distrusting of food this morning. Which made her suspicious because food-distrust and anxiety weren't conditions that just _disappeared_ overnight. But he was eating, opening his mouth immediately for another bite, and he was more relaxed this morning than she'd ever seen him.

So. . . gift-horse, won't look it in the mouth.

Still, it was fucking annoying.

Danny opened his mouth and hummed for more, little hands squeezing gently on her forearms, and Penelope couldn't help but chuckle. "You're so freakin' _cute_, it's criminal, kiddo."

He ignored her, opened up for more. But that was okay. For now, food was more important.

"You 'oughta slow 'im down," Walker suddenly called. "He's gon' make himself sick."

Penelope scowled. He was right _again_, dammit, but she didn't want to admit that to him or _anyone_. Because as far as she was concerned, he didn't know shit about fuckall.

"Danny, honey, smaller bites. You don't want to be sick."

. . . he _didn't know anything_.

~*O*~

danny's tummy is full and he's in _clothes_ for the first time in forever, and he thinks that he would very much like to take a nap now, ms. penny.

this is so _strange. _he doesn't know what to do with himself. because he's wrapped in a blanket and ms. penny has him in her lap, fingers through his hair, and his eyes still ache and his tummy still feels like it has a ball of ice in it. but there's no hurt, no needles no yelling no skaal-pulls, and mr. walker said that danny was _his _boy now, that he was gonna be safe no matter what.

danny doesn't know if he believes that, not really, but he wants to. he'd even _talked_ earlier, nails in his throat and trying not to fall through the floor. ms. penny likes to give him kisses and mr. walker likes to call him nick-names like daddy used to and they both are so very very nice. they think he's a good boy even when he's not, and danny wonders if jazzy would have liked it here.

he thinks she would have liked it lots.

a yawn stretches his jaw wide and danny snuggles back into ms. penny some more, listens as she laughs because her laugh is kind of pretty and maybe, just maybe, if he tries real hard, he can sleep without having nightmares.

no mommy, I'm danny I'm danny I'm sorry please don't mommy, and then there's cutting and medicine that burns his tummy, he's so hungry, doesn't know what's happening it hurts it hurts it hurts mommy why why why?!

fingers run through his hair and ms. penny kisses him on the forehead, rocks back and forth and back again, and danny hums because this is _nice_. this is _nice_ and there's no hurt and he wants to make sure he enjoys it while he can. they'll stop loving him soon. mommy and daddy stopped loving him.

that makes danny's heart ache and he snuggles against ms. penny's chest and tries to forget.

the blankets are warm, wrapped tight around him like a hug, and danny feels so sleepy, even though his eyes still ache a little. he smiles because ms. penny rocks back onto the couch, pulls him closer, holds him tighter, and danny wonders if it will always be like this? cuddles and kisses and blankies? rocket pancakes in the mornings? that would be amazing – even though he doesn't deserve it.

but. . .

but mr. walker said that danny _wasn't_ a bad boy. that he was a very good boy and he followed the rules and danny thinks mr. walker was telling the truth. because his voice might be funny and turn up at the corners but he has very serious eyes and he reminds danny of mr. sanchez, who was a police-man and paulina's daddy. police men help people, danny remembers, and they have very serious eyes, and danny thinks that maybe, just maybe, mr. walker can help him too?

his head hurts.

he wants to nap now.

"Danny, baby, you need to stay awake for a little bit longer. I know you're tired, but you won't sleep tonight if you nap all day."

her voice is very quiet and it doesn't sound mean, but danny is _tired_. let him sleep, please? wants to sleep. ms. penny bounces him a little bit, jostles, and her hand brushes across a scar on his back and. . .

it _hurts_.

danny gasps and he doesn't mean to, body goes tense, and he tries to hold his breath to keep from crying because, please, don't be mad, ms. penny he didn't mean to! was an _accident_ mommy I pressed the button it's me it's danny I sorry and he didn't mean to jerk, didn't mean to make noise. . .

"Sweetie, you're fine. It's okay, Danny. I'm not mad. You're fine, little man, shush now."

the air in his chest catches on his ribs and danny _hiccups_, and it _hurts_, but ms. penny rocks him some more, kisses his nose, rubs a circle on his back and remembers where the hurt-places are and danny realizes that she'd hurt him on _accident_. he's so confused. ms. penny said that he was a _ghost_ what've you done with my danny, ghost? why are you here, ghost? ghost ghost ghost mommy says it like it's dirty, like it's nasty and daddy's screaming at him _ghost!_ but she didn't make it seem like a bad thing. she said he was a prince and a ghost and a very good little boy. she can't be right can she?

but maybe _he's _wrong?

danny is so confused.

it hurts his head.

he just wants to sleep until it doesn't hurt anymore.

"Spectra? He alright?"

ms. penny hums quietly in his ear and danny remembers that mr. walker was still here too. he shakes and shakes and sucks some air back into his lungs. more hands in his hair. bouncing. a kiss on his temple. danny feels his muscles relax and doesn't hold on so tight because what if he hurts ms. penny on an accident too?

"He's fine. I caught a scar on accident, didn't I, sweetheart?"

danny hiccups again. it hurts. but he's used to it, and it's a dull hurt, not a burn-break-cut kind of hurt, so he can handle it. he nods, peeks out from his blankie and sees mr. walker has changed clothes. he's tall and his chest looks very wide in the button-up shirt he's got on and it reminds danny of that one time daddy wore a suit for jazzy's school conferences. daddy had looked very strange when he wasn't wearing his jumpsuit.

but mr. walker is _not _daddy. he's very different. because he's got a white face and it looks like a skull, and he's got very serious eyes and can be scary but his smile is nice, and danny thinks he would be a very good daddy.

ms. penny rocks him some more and mr. walker comes to sit on the couch with them, leaning back against the cushions. danny thinks that he looks very stiff.

"Y'alright, kiddo?"

he's got a deep voice, but it stays quiet and quiet is good, so danny answers him. ms. spelka always said that manners were very important, and it's rude not to answer someone when they ask you a question, he remembers. and so danny says _I ok_ and tries not to shake anymore even though he's still not sure he believes there will be no more hurt. . .

mr. walker looks like he's going to answer and then there's a _knock. . ._

knock knock knock against the lab door and jazzy's calling for him through the door, danny, bubby, are you down there and danny tries to scream he _tries _but his throat hurts so so bad. no noise comes and he can hear jazzy crying and, no no no no no he's here, jazzy, honest! he's not a ghost, not a bad boy, he's _not_ except jazzy never answers and mommy comes back and yells at him and daddy hits and hurt hurt hurt

danny gasps again, shakes some more, and ms. penny holds him tight and the rocking comes again, and he's trying not to cry because he's not a bad boy right? he's a good boy right? mr. walker had said so and ms. penny had said so and they're so very nice so maybe they're not lying? he doesn't want to go back and he doesn't want to be bad anymore. doesn't want to hurt doesn't want nightmares doesn't want his tummy to gnaw itself because he's so hungry.

and ms. penny rocks him back and forth and back again and danny tries to bury himself in her chest because she is _safe_ and she is _warm_ and. . .

"Johnathan Walker, y'all know dang well to let me know you're comin' beforehand!"

oh no oh no oh no mr. walker sounds angry, deep voice like thunder and it growls and danny feels like his chest is going to explode, his tummy very cold, and he chokes on a sob and ms. penny holds him tighter. kisses his forehead. whispers and tells him it'll be okay and danny tries to believe her, he _does_, except. . .

his mind screams _liar liar liar pants on fire quit lying_.

"Aww, c'mon, Pops! You know I don't mean nothin' by it! I think the cam-chain is going out in my Harley, and I thought you could help me take a look at it real quick."

new voice. a man. not very old, kinda low but it sounds like he's not super worried about mr. walker being angry. and ms. penny has gone very still, very stiff, but she keeps shushing him, running her fingers through his hair, and danny wonders who this person is. more hurt? come to take him back? doesn't know doesn't want to know so he'll hold on tight to ms. penny and pray.

"Johnny, I've got a new arrival, and he's real. . . _sensitive_."

sensitive? what's that mean? danny tries to take a big deep breath and the air comes in, makes his chest push out, and ms. penny tells him he's doing a very good job and it sounds like there's a smile in her voice.

"Aww crap, Pops, I'm sorry! I didn't know. . ."

new voice again. sounds like an apology.

"That's why yer s'pposed to _let me know before_, Johnny." a sigh. "C'mon in. I'll take a quick look an' see if I can salvage that hunk 'a junk."

footsteps, door creaking, more footsteps. danny doesn't want to look. doesn't want to know.

"Penny? What're you doing here?" the voice sounds curious, surprised. "I thought you an' Bertrand had some sort of scheme goin' at Casper High?"

ms. penny shifts and her arms hold him a bit tighter, a hand against his head.

"We did. And then Bullet came and tied me in a sack. So here I am."

"This the new kid?"

danny goes very very still. this man noticed him, sees him, and that _isn't safe_. people aren't _safe_, no one but mr. walker and ms. penny because they _promised_ they would never hurt him, wouldn't yell or hit or needles-cutting-hurt. but this person has not promised and this person is new and danny just. . .

he can't. . .

"Johnny, keep your voice down. He doesn't do well with loud noises."

boots on the floor, heavy, and danny feels goosebumps crawling up his arms and he _squeaks_, doesn't mean to, holds tighter to ms. penny and tries to disappear in his blankets. his legs are wrapped so hard he can feel them shaking.

"Seriously, Penny? You don't even _like_ kids – why're you helping Pops with this one?"

ms. penny _snorts_.

"I'll give you exactly _three guesses_, Johnny. Why the hell do you _think _I'm helping him?"

quiet. then. . .

"He threatened you, didn't he? Pops is good at that."

"It was either help him or a thousand years in solitary."

"Jeezus, that's harsh, even for him."

there's movement under him and danny thinks that ms. penny is shrugging and he's very confused because she's _talking _to this stranger, doesn't think he's a bad person, even though he hasn't promised. maybe he's not bad? not going to take him away?

"Yeah, well, he's stubborn as hell and wasn't going to let me leave even if I'd wanted to. Doesn't really matter now, anyway. I can't just leave Danny with him. Warden Jack-ass would lose his mind if I did that."

danny thinks about batman and jazzy and mr. walker's serious eyes and tries to be very brave. he opens his eyes. he _looks_.

this man isn't like mr. walker at all. he kind of reminds danny of a couple of the teenagers that help ms. spelka out sometimes, the ones that read them books and play games. he's got blonde hair and green eyes and he's wearing a very big coat, gloves without fingers. they keep calling him johnny and danny thinks that it fits him, just like the crooked teeth in his smile.

"Danny? That's a pretty cool name for such a little dude."

johnny looks at danny and then the smile drops and he steps back and danny thinks oh no oh no oh_ no_ more hurt can't handle please don't. . .

"Holy _shit!_"

ms. penny lets danny dig back in and shushes, hands in his hair. danny can't stop shaking, and there's something on his cheeks, sticky thick and it gets in his mouth and it tastes _sweet_ and then a thumb wipes it away.

"Shhh! Are you _trying _get us both an earful?!"

"What the absolute _hell _happened to his eyes?!"

his eyes? what's wrong with his eyes? what's wrong with his eyes?!"

danny sucks in more air, shakes, claws at his head and rocks and tries to make the voices screaming in his head just be

_quiet_

but they won't. they won't they won't they won't what's wrong with his eyes they hurt and he doesn't know what's happening?!

"Okay, jackass, if you can't be trusted to keep your goddamn mouth shut, then go outside and _leave Danny alone_! You being a moron is not helping him in the slightest."

"Says the one swearing in front of the kid!"

"_Get. Out._"

ms. penny sounds annoyed but danny thinks it isn't at him. but the voices are screaming, calling him a bad boy and a liar and a _ghost_ and everything bad in the world and danny just. . . he _can't_. and ms. penny rocks him and holds him close, the boots thump thump thumping away on the hard floor and danny can't help it anymore.

he cries and he cries and he cries and he tries to ask _what's wrong with me?!_ but he doesn't think the words come out right.

but ms. penny swallows and hugs him real tight and kisses his face, whispers against his temple and she sounds very sad, like she's trying not to cry.

"Oh, baby, there's nothing wrong with you. You've just had some very, very bad things happen, that's all. Hush, now, sweetie. I've got you. I'm going to make it better. Walker and I will make it better. I promise."

danny can't stop crying and it hurts in his chest and his face and his eyes and his heart and he wants to just make it all go away. . .

more rocking. more kisses. more fingers through his hair and the blanket around his shoulders.

danny just wants to _sleep_, please, ms. penny, he's so very tired.

"We'll make it better, baby."

he wishes he could believe her.

**A/N: Holy _shit _this chapter is an absolute UNIT!**

**This one was a bit of an emotional roller-coaster, right? I tried to keep everything moving somewhat forward (relatively speaking) and we got a glimpse of Johnny this time! Yay! As always, things with Danny are somewhat of a "one step forward, two steps back" kind of deal. I hope that was conveyed somewhat in his section of the chapter. Which didn't flow as well as I'd hoped but fuck it. This was as good as it was getting. **

**Thank you all so so much for the lovely reviews! Keep them coming! Constructive criticism, praise, hatred for my absolute dickery towards Danny, I'd love it all!**

**As always, I'll see you in the next chapter (whenever the fuck that happens)**

**BlackRosePoetry**


	6. Chapter 6

There were exactly three things that Johnny 13 feared.

One: Kitty when she was mad. Two: the thought of _losing _Kitty for any reason whatsoever (his own dumb-assery included). And Three: his Dad. Specifically, his ghost dad. Who was the fucking warden of a prison, didn't possess a sense of humor, and had muscles that could crush someone's spine.

Yeah. . . that was a Thing.

Still, Johnny _needed_ his cam-chain looked at – fuckin' Harley and its stupid hydraulic Twin Cam engines – and he just didn't have the willpower to fuck around with Bullet. That asshole _still _hadn't forgiven him for the whole "fake hitting on his wife" thing. It was a _joke_, dude, get the fuck over it. But no. Bullet was a petty-ass bitch.

So here he was, motorcycle touched-down on the lawn and Shadow refusing to come out as he looked up at the front door. It was so fuckingfuckin innocent looking, that red door with a cross on it. Like something out of a catalogue.

But to Johnny?

That door could open up and pour out _fear_. . .

Johnny growled to himself, stubbed his cigarette out on the bottom of the boot, and swung off the bike. This was Pops – yeah, sure, he'd grumble and be a general dick about it, but he'd help. Pops always helped. Even when he didn't actually want to.

Didn't make him any less fuckingfuckin' scary though.

"Nut up or shut up, Johnny," he muttered to himself.

He knocked on the door three times and waited. It wouldn't take long – Pops may not've used powers in the house, but he moved quick for someone so big – so he didn't really have time to regret his decision.

Then the door swung open, Pops looming over him like some incarnation of Pissed-Off, and Johnny regretted waking up that morning. And choosing to keep his Harley. Well, the latter lasted for like half a second because his bike was _almost_ as precious as Kitty. Which was saying something. And, oh shit, he'd forgotten the Patented-Look of "Johnny, you fucked up" that Pops had. It'd been a while since that one had come out.

"Johnathan Walker, y'all know dang well to let me know you're comin' beforehand!"

Well, Pops wasn't _wrong_. But he seemed to underestimate the bullshit that Bullet liked to put his eldest through, thank you very fucking much. So, this was one rule that could be bent. A little. Sometimes. . . Christ, he wished Pops would get worse at dirty looks, because this was fucking uncomfortable.

"Aww, c'mon, Pops!" Johnny tried to ignore the twisting in his guts with nonchalance. "You know I don't mean nothin' by it! I think the cam-chain is going out in my Harley, and I thought you could help me take a look at it real quick."

Pops let out a sigh, scrubbing a hand through his hair. Wait, what? Johnny took a closer look and realized that Pops was wearing, like, normal-people clothes. No suit. Just a t-shirt, red-checked button up, and jeans. Barefoot. _Barefoot_. Pops _never _went barefoot for anything. Except. . .

"Johnny, I've got a new arrival and he's. . . _sensitive_."

Fucking shit. Of all the rotten luck. . .

In the back of his mind, Shadow chuckled low in his ear, and Johnny had to mentally smack the little shit down. He rolled his shoulders, scratching anxiously at the back of his head.

"Aww crap, Pops, I'm sorry! I didn't know. . .!"

Pops was not what Kitty liked to refer to as a "social butterfly." He kept to himself, intensely private, and Johnny could understand that. When you're the big, bad Warden, it wouldn't end well if one of your inmates to figure out you fostered a bunch of fucked-up little kids.

Speaking of big, bad wardens. . . Pops had pinched the bridge of his nose, brows meeting in a big line. Then he stepped back. and jerked his head towards the living room. "That's why yer supposed to _let me know_, Johnny." He sighed and jerked his head towards the living room.. "C'mon in. I'll take a quick look an' see if I can salvage that hunk 'a junk."

Ouch, Pops, that was harsh.

Johnny tried to fight the scowl working its way onto his face and pushed into the living room. Pops was grumbling on his way out, as was per the norm. This time, Johnny grinned. Well, at least _that _hadn't changed since he'd left. The grumbling was like a staple for Walker sanity. He didn't bother taking off his boots – they were clean, Pops, honest – and stumped into the living room. Maybe he could catch a few Z's on the couch. . .

Or maybe not because Spectra was taking up all the room. And there was a little kid on her lap. Clinging to her for dear fucking life.

Jesus Tits, had he entered the Twilight Zone on accident?

"Penny? What're you doin' here? I thought you an' Bertrand had some sort of scheme goin' at Casper High?"

Okay, so fucking around with Penny was _much_ less scary than facing down his Pops. Because she might've been a misery-sucking bitch, but goddamn if she couldn't take as good as she gave. Penelope glared at him. Which was comical, considering she was in leggings, sitting cross-legged with a kid on her lap. Speaking of the kid, he was shaking pretty badly, even though he was wrapped up in a blanket. Face buried in Pen's clavicle. She'd cupped a hand to the back of his head, rocking back and forth.

Still, the look in her eyes probably could've frozen the Hell over.

"We did. And then Bullet came and tied me in a sack. So here I am."

Ah, Bullet! The crowned prince of jackasses! Johnny couldn't help but snicker a little bit. He stopped when Penny's glare got scarier – there were lines, and he didn't want to cross them, because she could kind of, sort of still kick his ass if she really wanted to. So he'd just stick to the obvious questions.

"This the new kid?"

Johnny remembered what it was like when Youngblood first formed. Poor little guy was missing a right arm and leg. Had nightmares like a motherfucker. But the kid would still talk, still play games and engage even though his brain was still trying to adjust to being, you know, fucking dead. But _this kid_. . . Little guy went stiff when he was referred to. As in stock-still, rigid, rigor mortis stiff.

What the actual fuck?

Penny was staring so hard into him, it was actually a wonder his core hadn't exploded. Like, _literally fucking exploded_.

"Johnny, keep your voice down," she near-growled. "He doesn't do well with loud noises."

Well, now. . .

He took a couple steps forward to get a better look. Only, he had to stop because the kid fucking _squeaked_ like he thought he was about to die. And held tighter to Penny, of all people. It was like he was trying to disappear in those blankets. Johnny couldn't help it. He _had _to know.

"Seriously, Penny? You don't even _like_ kids – why're you helping Pops with this one?"

Penny rolled her eyes and snorted. "I'll give you exactly _three guesses_, Johnny. Why the hell do you _think_ I'm helping him?"

Sassy bitch. Johnny knew why she was helping Pops. Because there was exactly one way that Pops worked: his way. Either do what he said or face the consequences. Meaning. . .

"He threatened you, didn't he?"

"It was either help him or a thousand years in solitary." She said it so matter-of-fact, like this was a mild threat instead of something that could potentially cripple her.

"Jeezus, that's harsh, even for him."

And it _was_. Pops could be. . . strict, on certain things, sure. But he usually wasn't out-in-out vicious. He left that to the guards. Or Bullet. Who was a prick. A thousand years for someone like Penny, though. That was just plain cruel. Even if it was happening to someone like Penny. Who was a bitch.

Still. . . Kitty liked her, so she couldn't be all bad, right?

Shrugging, Penelope fixed him with a bit of a dead-pan stare. "Yeah, well, he's stubborn as hell and wasn't going to let me leave even if I'd wanted to. Doesn't really matter now, anyway. I can't just leave Danny with him. Warden Jack-ass would lose his mind if I did that."

Okay, bitch, there were _lines_. Pops could be a bit hard-nosed, but he wasn't all _that bad_. Scary as fuck, sure, but not bad. Still, he had to keep in mind this was _Penny_, who once thought it was great fun to convince Klemper it was a good idea to hug Prince "I'm a Dick" Aragon. _Outside the annual truce_. Her definition of a jackass – someone who forced her to behave herself – probably had a picture of Pops next to it.

Some movement caught his eye, and Johnny realized that the kid was looking up at him. He smiled at how the brat's fluffy white hair covered most of his face.

"Danny? That's a pretty cool name for such a little dude."

It kind of was. Danny – probably short for Daniel – was a much cooler name than Johnny. Shit, he wasn't paying attention all that well again. Pops would be having a fit. So Johnny looked at the kid a bit closer. . .

And. . .

"Holy _shit!_"

The kid didn't have any eyes. He didn't have _eyes_! Like, what the actual, literal fuck?! All that stared up at him were big pits of ectoplasm, weeping down the kid's skinny cheeks. There were cuts all around the sockets.

And, okay, so he could've been a little bit more sensitive. But, come _on_, how the shit does someone react when all that's sprung on them?! Poor kid looked fucking terrified, and he shook so hard it was a miracle he didn't vibrate right through Penelope. Who thumbed the ectoplasm from his cheeks and held him tight.

Yeah, Penelope not being as scary as Pops was a fucking _lie_. Vicious, dirty lies.

"Shhh!" she hissed. "Are you _trying_ to get us both an earful?!"

Pops was going to shit a brick but. . . "What the absolute _hell_ happened to his eyes?!"

That might've been a mistake.

Penelope's eyes flashed red, bloody and vicious, and her lip curled up in a snarl. There were black veins creeping across her face, down her neck, like evil spiderwebs. Which was horrendous because spiders were evil to fucking begin with. And then Johnny caught sight of the poor kid, Danny. He was hyperventilating, clinging so tight to Penny that his body had begun to shake. Little fingers clawed at her, desperate, and he was rocking.

Taylor used to do that when he had a panic attack.

Shit – he'd fucked up again.

"Okay, jackass, if you can't be trusted to keep your goddamn mouth shut, then go outside and _leave Danny alone_! You being a moron is not helping him in the slightest."

He understood Penny to a degree. She was The Bitch, tended towards narcissism on a good day and sadism on a bad. But when she cared about something, it was _hers_. And Danny, apparently, was _hers_. But Johnny had always been shit at keeping his mouth shut. Especially when someone pushed the right button.

And, Jesus Christ, was Penny good at pushing the right buttons.

"Says the one swearing in front of the kid!"

As soon as he said, it. . . regret. So much regret. All the fucking regret.

Penelope's glare was absolutely fucking _demonic_. How the hell had he never realized how fucking _scary_ this bitch was?! It was like his core was freezing from the inside-out. Like he was stuck in a tar-pit and he couldn't get out of. Sucked into an ecto-vortex of fucking evil. The veins got darker, deeper, shading across her cheeks and creeping into her hairline.

"_Get. Out."_

Well, he didn't need to be told twice.

Johnny Walker had never been known as a paragon of bravery. He fucking _booked it_, trying desperately to get a grip. Because _holy fuckin shit_ that was just so many levels of Not Okay. Thankfully, he remembered not to slam the door because Pops was still elbow-deep in his Harley on the front lawn, grease smeared across his knuckles.

"So when were you gonna tell me that the kid didn't have any fuckin' eyes?!" Johnny exploded. "And _Penny_?! Christ, Pops, what the hell?!"

Oh, there was the Patented-Look of Extreme Disapproval. Otherwise known as the Glare of Pissed-Off.

"Watch your mouth! It ain't punctuation, brat, don't use it like it is." Ahh, the growl – Johnny could always count on Pops to be somewhat the same. "And what're you goin' on about?"

Johnny stomped over and slumped down into the grass, elbows resting on his knees. His eyes felt like they were about to fall out of his head. "Pop, why didn't you tell me that the kid was _that bad_?! I made a complete dick of myself in there. Like, I gave the kid a panic attack."

Pops sighed and smeared grease across his face when he scrubbed at it. "Dang-it, Johnny, you _know _better. You remember what Taylor was like."

"Yeah, I remember," Johnny huffed. "But at least Tay had some damn _eyes _when he looked at me. I looked down and here was this little kid with, like, _pits _in his head and I just kinda panicked? I dunno, but I'm pretty sure Penny's gonna find some way to rip my spine out."

Pops actually _snorted_. "Kid, that woman's 'bout twelve different kinds of crazy. She's gonna ruin you one way or the other – just'a matter a time."

That. . . that did not make him feel any better. Like at all. In the slightest. In fact, he felt like Death was breathing down his neck again.

Johnny gulped and moved to help change out the cam-chain. "Why _did _you let Lieutenant Jack-Off kidnap her? Penny's not exactly known for being eager to help."

The look on Pop's face told its own story. "Son, I've seen things that'd make the hair on the back 'a your neck stand up. But I ain't _never_ seen anything like Danny. I had no idea what to do. So I found someone who did."

God, that must've felt like pulling out a rotten tooth. Johnny could practically see his dad's pride chaffing. Still, he managed a grin, nudging against Pops as they worked.

"I heard you threatened her. A thousand years in solitary, Pops, really? That's just uncool."

Pops rolled his eyes and grunted. "Woman's stubborn as a mule. And 'bout three times as mean. It was the best way to get her to say yes. 'sides, it ain't like she don't deserve it."

"Well, you're not _wrong_. Did I ever tell you about the time she made Technus cry?" Johnny couldn't keep the laughter at bay. "It was during the damn _truce_ and she'd gotten tired of him going on about his technology, so she just kinda unloaded on the poor SOB. Pop, the poor guy cried for, like, twenty minutes, and I'm not exaggerating."

Pops tightened a bolt with the flick of his wrist, muscles bunching up in his forearm – the one with the skull tattoo – and sat back with a quick chuckle. "I believe you. She's got a mean streak wider than her backside. Like to have bit my head off yesterday when I wouldn' say she could stay with me."

Johnny froze. Did. . . did he just hear that right? Penny? Living here? With. . . with Pops of all the fucking people?!

"Holy _shit_, Pops, you're letting her _live here?!_"

"Watch. Your. Mouth." Pops was wearing a dangerous expression, hard and closed-off. "I won't tell y'all again, Johnathan Walker."

Johnny tried not to wince.

"Sorry, Pops," he muttered. "You know, for a Jarhead, you're awfully conservative with the whole language thing."

Pops finished attaching the new belt with an easy twist, one that could've easily snapped every bone in Johnny's forearm. "I was a Marine in the '20's, kid. Rough language then was different. 'sides, makes ya sound like an idiot, which y'aren't. But I think I gotcha all fixed up."

It was true. The belt was new, pristine – much easier to work with machinery when you could just phase through shit – and his Harley was ready to ride. Shadow was practically vibrating in the back of his mind. Johnny grinned. Only for it to fall when a massive, grease-covered hand clamped down on his shoulder, squeezing _just _hard enough to make him want to die again.

Fucking shit, why did _nothing_ ever go right for him?

"Like I said, I gotcha fixed up," Pops warned quietly. "But _don't _go showin' up without askin' again. Danny ain't ready for visitors."

The curse of "Johnny Can't Keep His Fucking Mouth Shut" struck once more.

"I kind of figured that, considering he had a damn panic attack in front of me, Pops."

More pressure. Fight or Flight might've, sort of, kind of gone into overdrive. Because Pops was a nightmare. A nightmare who didn't swear, but a nightmare all the same.

"Don' get smart with me, boy. I put up with a lot from you – don' dig yerself a hole."

Johnny gulped and tried not to panic. "No holes. Got it, Pops!"

Pops had this kind of smile that made Johnny's insides twist. Something like a cross between a feral snarl and a knowing grin. It spelled trouble. Lots of trouble. All the trouble in the entire fucking Zone.

"Good thing, brat," Pops growled. "Now, git on outta here. I got enough trouble without you an' that dang Shadow runnin' around here."

Johnny couldn't help but grin a little at that. "Dang, Pops, if I didn't know better, I'd say you didn't like Shadow all that much."

Pops scowled. "That dadgum thing ain't nothin' but a pain in my rear. I'm pretty sure it hates me."

Shadow chuckled in the back of Johnny's mind, and he could practically feel the ink and malice dripping down his neck. "Yeah. . . you might be right about that last part. But c'mon, Pops! It's not like _I _hate you or anything."

"Y'all did at one point, brat."

Johnny sobered.

Yeah, he had.

Because there had been literally _no one _in his life that'd been any good. And when he'd gotten here, when he'd fucking _died_ because of his shitty, shitty luck, he hadn't expected anyone else to be any good either. So when he'd met Pops – hard-assed, humorless, rule-obsessed Pops – it had been a hell of a new paradigm. There was lots of hatred. _Real _hatred. But then he'd come to the realization that Pops actually _cared_, dig? Underneath all that Texas bullshit and macho bravado was someone that wanted to help. That believed in him.

So, no, Johnny didn't hate his Pops anymore – but that didn't mean that being reminded of a time when he did didn't hurt.

"That was cheap, Pops," Johnny muttered.

"Maybe, kid. But if ya forget where ya started at, what kinda progress can you make?"

Shit – he was being all wise and shit. Which Johnny had no time for, thank you very much. So he did what he did best – swung over his Harley, lit up a cigarette, and gave his Pops a lopsided grinsuch nonsense.

"Thanks for everything, Pops!" he called. "I'll hit you up if I need anything else, 'kay?"

Pops rolled his eyes. "Whatever, brat, just git on!"

So he did.

Johnny kicked his bike into gear, let Shadow fly loose, and as he flew off to meet Kitty for some burgers, he tried to ignore the pit of guilt gnawing at his insides.

_Y'all did at one point, brat. . . _

~*O*~

Be Jazz Fenton.

You are six-years-old and have red hair, two pigtails tied with blue ribbons, and all your teachers call you "gifted." Mommy calls you her fighter and Daddy calls you princess and Danny called you Jazzy the kids at school call you know-it-all. The house where you live has a sign that says Fenton Works and you know because you've learned how to read, taught yourself when Danny needed a story Mommy and Daddy were too busy to do it for you.

Be Jazz Fenton.

And the house is no longer warm. It is cold and quiet, and Mommy cries a lot and Daddy always smells sour, like that weird brown water he's always drinking. You are six-years-old but no one has ever called you stupid. There is something _wrong_ and you know it, but no one will tell you anything. So you go to school and ignore the other children putting paste in your hair and read and read until the words form stories, until the stories make sense.

Except. . .

Except _nothing _makes sense anymore. You are tired and alone, and not even Bearbert Einstein can make things seem bright anymore. Mommy used to laugh a lot, used to make cookies and give kisses and cuddles. She taught you some karate. And now all Mommy does is cry and sleep, and if sometimes you wake up in the middle of the night with her wrapped around you, holding way too tight and crying big ugly tears into your hair, then you're not allowed to say anything about it – Mommy doesn't usually remember.

And Daddy used to be very loud and give lots of hugs, used to shout about ghosts even though "ghosts aren't real, Daddy, everyone knows that!" Except now all he does is sit and stare into nothing, like some of those zombies you once saw on TV even though you were supposed to be asleep, and he smells funny. Sometimes he yells and throws things and you can't understand what he's saying, but it's _loud _and _scary_ and he doesn't always stop when it makes you cry.

Sometimes crying just makes it worse.

Be Jazz Fenton.

Be six-years-old and know that something isn't right and that someone is _missing_.

Miss your little brother, Danny, who is four-years-old – he'll be five in May, you remember – and follows you around like a baby duck. Danny, who has big blue eyes and loves space, has a teddy named Bear Aldrin after his favorite astronaut. Danny, who gives the biggest hugs and always tells you that he loves you, even after a big fight and you were mean, and has hair that falls into his eyes when he giggles.

Danny, who went into the lab when he wasn't supposed to. . .

Danny, who turned on _something_ that made the house go "boom!" and rattle and everything went bright like the inside of the Sun. . .

Danny, who came up from the basement with white hair and green eyes, crying that he'd just wanted to play spaceman. . .

You watched as Mommy and Daddy screamed at Danny, who was still crying, and shot him with one of their grown-up guns. Cried because Danny was crying, pulled at Daddy's arms and beat on Mommy's legs until your hands were bruised and they had to put you in time-out for hitting. Cried and cried and kept crying until Mommy came back up from the lab and wrapped you in a big hug, explained that it wasn't _Danny _that they had shot, that they had dragged limp and scary-quiet down to the basement. Explained that it was a _ghost_, who only looked like Danny, who wore his face but wasn't actually a person.

Mommy had said that they would get the ghost to bring Danny back.

You are six-years-old, but you know how to count – all the way up to twenty! – and so you counted four rounds of twenty waiting for your bubby to come home. You asked your teacher, Mr. Pendergrass, what four twenties were.

Four twenties, he said, was eighty.

Eighty is a very big number for a very small girl.

Danny has been gone for eighty days and you are six, but not stupid. Mommy keeps crying and Daddy doesn't want to play with you and Danny has been gone for eighty days. Sometimes, you sit at the top of the basement stairs and stair at the big door, cry some more because all you have to do is _open it_. You can open the door. Because it isn't locked, has never been locked, but you just. . .

You can't open the door.

Mommy gets a scary look when she sees you sitting there, when she hears you knock and call for Danny, yells at you until she cries and you have to hug her. Daddy just pushes you away and his hands aren't gentle like they used to be, too big and too rough against your arms. Everything is confusing and hurt now.

Be Jazz Fenton.

Sit in your bed every night and listen to Mommy and Daddy fight. Listen to shouting, the sounds of things breaking on walls, and hold onto Bearbert until your fingers go white. Sometimes, sneak into Danny's room and lay on his bed, the one with rocket sheets. Grab Bear Aldrin and cry into his fur and wish wish _wish _that Danny comes home tomorrow. And if not tomorrow, soon. So soon.

But you must also know deep down that Danny is not coming home.

Because you are Jazz Fenton, six years old, and you know that the boy with white hair and green eyes, the one that had looked at you and called you "Jazzy" was Danny. He was the boy who screamed lots during the night, the one you could hear saying "please, Mommy, I'm Danny, no, I'm sorry!" and he was Danny. He was a boy with green eyes not blue and white hair not black and he was Danny.

You don't know how that could even happen.

But Danny has been gone for eighty days and the house is starting to smell bad, like that rat Daddy once pulled out from behind the oven, and you know that Danny. . .

Danny was downstairs and Danny was _screaming _and you _know things_ but Mommy says you can't say anything to the nice policemen because they might take you far away, where you'll never see home again. . .

Be Jazz Fenton.

Sit as other kids throw mud in your face at recess and say nothing until a boy named Dash asks where your "freak" brother is. Feel the blood rush in your ears and your heart beat in your chest and _scream_ at this boy, who calls you names because you are smarter than him, smaller than him, and watch as his eyes get big. Run at him and punch him with every ounce of anger your tiny fists can make. Keep hitting until he's crying and Mr. Pendergrass is yelling, lifting you away from this mean, small little boy.

Fight until you can't fight anymore and then cry until you get sick.

Sit in the plastic chair outside the principal's office and listen to Mommy yell some more. Daddy is very quiet and Principal Hawthorne is usually a very nice man, but now he sounds angry, like something is wrong because it is. Scuff the toes of your butterfly sneakers on white tile and sniffle, glance at Dash out of the corner of your eye as his daddy the fireman scolds him with serious eyes. Feel your heart hurt because that little boy called Danny a freak and. . .

Wince when a hand lands on your shoulder, squeezes too tight, and let Mommy march you out of school. Be ready for more yelling. Even though it makes your tummy hurt and your chest ache. Know you can't cry because that only makes it worse.

Everything makes it worse.

Sit in bed for one more night and it's been eighty and one days since Danny has been gone and pray, over and over and over again, for someone to bring him back. Because Danny is your baby brother. With a happy smile and bright blue eyes and he is smart and nice and your best friend because you're not so good at making them with other kids. Other kids think you're weird and a freak but not Danny, and he's _gone_ and you just. . .

You don't understand why Mommy and Daddy didn't _see_?

Because they say that ghosts are bad, ghosts are evil, ghosts don't feel like people do they just pretend, live in the land of make-believe. And they say that the screaming is an act and that the ghost will tell them, they just have to run tests, do experiments, keep pushing until they find Danny. Except you try to say that it _is _Danny, that he is on the table and that he is screaming, except Mommy and Daddy just sigh like you're dumb, smile like you're stupid, and they explain slower.

You are six.

Why would grown-ups believe you?

Nothing is like it was before and you just want to go back, rewind like your Magic School Bus tapes. The house is cold and it smells like dead things and you don't know _exactly _what a ghost is, but even though Mommy says they're bad there must be some good ones? Because that little ghost who was Danny wasn't bad. You could tell. He'd had eyes that were scared, not bad, and sometimes scared things bite back. Like that time you accidentally startled the neighbor's little dog and it bit your fingers.

And the house is quiet now, you haven't heard screaming in three whole days, but something deep in your tummy knots because of that.

Is Danny okay?

Will Danny come back?

Are you too small? Too stupid? Too weird?

Mommy and Daddy are _different _now, and they don't _listen_. Nobody ever listens, but this is Danny, your bubby, with his big eyes and his bigger heart, and you have to _try_. But Mommy yells anytime you ask and Daddy shoves you away, yells mean things that make you cry. So you sit in your room and think back to when Danny was here, hold your bear and wish wish wish upon the stars above that someone will bring him back. Give him back. Make him safe and happy and _here_.

The basement door doesn't make noise anymore.

So remember, Jazz Fenton.

You are six years old.

You have red hair, pigtails, and a friend called Bearbert Einstein.

Your Mommy and Daddy took Danny to the lab and said he was a ghost.

Danny has stopped screaming.

~*O*~

"Here – y'all look like you need it."

Walker offered Spectra the cup of coffee gently, making sure not to startle either her or Danny in the process. She took the mug from him without a word, and he noticed how her fingers trembled around the ceramic handle. Her face was pale, knuckles white as kept a firm hold on the little boy sleeping in her lap, almost like she was afraid he'd disappear if she didn't. Her top was stained green with ectoplasm.

It had been three hours since Johnny had left.

Danny had fallen asleep – passed out from exhaustion, more accurately – only twenty minutes ago.

He sat a fair distance from the pair, close enough to intervene if she needed him to but far enough away to give them both some space. But Spectra still hadn't spoken a word. Walker never thought he'd see the day, but he kind of wanted her to talk to him. Even if it was to spout off something vulgar and sassy.

"C'mon, sugar, spit it out," Walker knew that his nudges were more like mental shoves, but he didn't have it in him to be tactful. "You're thinkin' awful hard to be this quiet."

Spectra turned. Slowly, like it hurt to move – which it probably did, considering she'd been curled up around Danny for the better part of three hours – her head twisted until they could look at each other fully. There were shadows in her eyes, more serious than he'd ever seen the snarky, irreverent witch.

"He kept asking what was wrong with him," Spectra rasped.

They were ghosts, but she sounded haunted, and Walker knew exactly what she meant.

Danny's panic had been different this time. It wasn't just rocking and trembling, teeth chattering in his tiny head coupled with hyperventilation. The kid had cried his little heart out, big heaving sobs that shook every bony inch of his frame. He'd sobbed and screamed and begged for answers, asked the same question over and over again until the words had bled together. Until everything was unintelligible desperation.

_ What's wrong with me?!_

Walker scrubbed a hand over his face, leaning forward until his elbows rested on his knees. "I know. I ain't seen anythin' like this, Spectra. He's just so. . ."

He couldn't find the right words. They just wouldn't come, heavy and metallic on his tongue. Trying to talk about how screwed up this little four-year-old was tasted like a mouthful of blood. Hurt like someone had punched him in the gut and twisted up into his ribs.

Spectra pulled Danny closer. Walker stared as the kid's chest rose and fall in a heavy sigh, bony frame slumping into her when fingers brushed across his head. He needed a haircut. Because the hair he had might've been thick, fluffy, but it was damaged and brittle and far too long. But this little boy was covered in scars and terrified of _everything_, everyone, and. . .

"Did you notice how he called himself a ghost this morning?" Walker didn't know where the question came from. "At breakfast? He said that he was a ghost and his mama said so."

There was a line creasing Spectra's forehead, and something in her eyes burned. Bloody red around the pupils as her temper rose. But she was exceedingly gentle with the kid, handled him like glass, like something precious. Walker felt something in the back of his mind itch.

"I don't think he knows he's a ghost, though," Spectra muttered, tasting the words before she spoke them. "The way he talked. . . it was like he'd been brainwashed. Told that he was a ghost over and over until he accepted the fact that he _was_."

Walker frowned. He plucked his own cup of coffee from the table and took a swig. Black, bitter, like a caffeine slap.

"What'dya mean? How could he _not know_?"

Quirking an eyebrow, Spectra gave him a look that spoke volumes about her evaluation of his intelligence. Which was fair. Because as soon as the sentence left his mouth, Walker realized how ignorant it sounded.

Danny was _four_. What four-year-old understood the concept of death? Abstract and all-encompassing ideas like death weren't something kids processed like adults. They understood only what they were capable of. And Danny – who had been beaten and verbally battered until his mind lay in pieces – just wasn't able to handle that.

"He's _four_, dumbass," Spectra hissed, condescension dripping from each syllable. "Most kids don't understand the permanence of death until they reach at least seven. And even kids who experience death younger than that take several months to fully comprehend that it's not temporary. I doubt Danny even realizes that he had to die to get here."

Walker thought back to the prison, when Danny had clung so tightly to Spectra's neck and repeated _you real_ like a prayer. The kid had thought someone being decent to him was a dream. Tension started to creep along his jaw and hands, and he had to set the coffee mug down before he accidentally shattered it. This one had been a present from Ember.

He couldn't let a temper tantrum ruin that.

"Watch yer mouth," he muttered half-heartedly. "We just got the kid to sleep, don' go wakin' 'im up with your swearin'."

But, dear Jesus, he was tired.

He leaned back and sank into the cushions of the couch, tossing the edge of an old throw over his lap. Spectra watched him cautiously, like she was afraid he'd reach over and snatch Danny away. Which was stupid. But the woman was a pain in the neck when she _wasn't _exhausted, hungover, and very obviously upset. So he'd let it go.

Again.

He was being _soft _again and had there been any fight left in him for the rest of the day, he would've protested such a thought. But here they were.

"Where do you think we should go from here?" Walker asked quietly. "The little punk obviously knows somethin's up. How're we supposed to explain that he's a ghost? Won't that just make things worse?"

Breaking the news to a new arrival that they were no longer living was a skill that Walker had acquired through many years of trial and error. Many, many errors to be honest. Johnny had lost control of his dadgum shadow and took out nearly half the guards before he'd been subdued. Ember had blown out the entire west wing of the prison. Taylor had stared at him for a long moment, all big eyes and bucked teeth, and sat down to cry.

That had been one of exactly four times Taylor had ever cried, and the thought of it still made his chest clench.

Spectra blinked, gnawing on her lower lip as she thought. Walker could practically see the gears in her head working to come up with a solution. She ran her fingers through Danny's hair like the kid was a dang worry-stone.

"I think," she started, quiet but firm as the pieces came together, "that we should start by trying to correct his _perception_ of ghosts. Right now, he thinks that ghosts are bad, and since he'd been brainwashed into thinking that _he _was a ghost, that cements all his self-deprecation. Ghosts are bad, he is a ghost, therefore he is bad."

Walker nodded. It made sense. The kid seemed smart enough, but anyone would've cracked under the amount of stressed he'd obviously been through. Made sense that he'd make a connection, if only to give himself some sort of _reason_ behind the abuse. Still, something just didn't sit right. Like a ragged edge or a hang-nail.

"He said somethin' awful this mornin'," he blurted.

"Oh, like what he's said since then has been sunshine and kittens?" Spectra rolled her eyes. "Come on, Tex, just about everything Danny says makes me want to punch someone in the damn face."

. . . he'd asked for this. He'd actually _asked_ for her to be sarcastic not five minutes ago.

His Momma would've slapped him upside the head and called him a glutton for punishment.

"If you're done bein' a smart-aleck?" Walker growled. "This is serious."

Spectra was trying to glare a hole through the back wall, eyes bright red as they took in the wood paneling. "I know. There's nothing about this entire damn situation that isn't serious. Just let me fucking _cope_, jackass."

Why? She was so much smarter than this – why did it _always _have to be filtered through profanity?"

He'd let it go. Again. For the third dadgum time.

"I startled him when he woke up this mornin', had to talk 'im out of a panic attack."

Another quirked eyebrow. "I'm surprised you know how to do that, Mr. 'My-Way-or-The-Highway.'"

His teeth were gonna take permanent damage from him trying not to say something he'd regret. "You _really_ think I took care of Youngblood and Ember both without learnin' how to handle a panic attack? Contrary to popular belief, I ain't stupid. Now, if y'all will _stop interruptin' me_. . ."

Was that a blush he saw? It couldn't be – the witch had no shame. But stranger things _had _happened, and so Walker took note of the pink spreading across Spectra's pale cheeks as a win in the score-card for him.

"Whatever, jack-hole, just finish what you were saying."

"Fine. Now, as I was sayin', I had to talk 'im down from the panic. After he calmed down a bit, he asked me if we were going to hurt him. Which I thought was normal, considerin' the scars on 'im. An' then he asked me if we were going to do experiments on 'im."

Spectra. . . did not look as shocked as he would have hoped. "Most of the scars along his torso indicated long-term peri-mortem experimentation, Walker. I guess I just didn't think to explain all that to you."

Walker faced a bit more towards her, propping a foot up on his knee. "Yeah, I gathered that. But what got me was _why_ they'd experiment on 'im. What reason could they have for tellin' a four-year-old he was a ghost and run experiments if he was human?"

Spectra's face contorted in a vicious scowl. "Because his parents are psychotic fucking _assholes_ who need to be killed without a second thought? I'm a bitch, Walker, but I'm not a goddamn _freak_. Why the absolute _fuck_ would I know what the reason behind this was?!"

"Y'all 're missin' the point." Walker leaned in closer. "You ever met Plasmius?"

Confusion lit up in her eyes, and Spectra instinctively pulled Danny in closer to her chest. "Vladdy? We've met before. That man is fucking _issues_, and that's coming from me. Granted, I didn't help them in the slightest, but still. Why?"

Walker could feel ice creeping down his spine as the idea formed more solidly. "Plasmius ain't _just _a ghost, though, is he?"

He watched as the information struck. The silence was deafening, two horrified adults sitting with a broken, sleeping boy. Danny sighed in his sleep again, a little hand curling into the woman's ruined top. Dried ectoplasm made the fabric crunch under his thin fingertips. It sounded like gunfire in the quiet.

"Holy _shit_," Spectra breathed. "You think he was a _halfa_?! Walker, he's _four_! Vlad was twenty when he got his ghost powers, and it nearly killed him. How the actual hell would Danny have survived that level of ecto-radiation?"

Honestly, he _didn't _know how Danny would've survived. The kid probably would've been on the small side even if he hadn't been starved. But there was just something that fit about the whole thing. Why else would two parents turn on their four-year-old? If Danny had somehow become a halfa, somehow managed to survive the transformation into a half-ghost, it would explain a lot of the things that the punk had said. Most so-called "ghost experts" believed that ghosts couldn't feel pain. That they weren't real people, just ectoplasm with imprinted memories and vicious instincts.

If Danny had become a half-ghost and couldn't change back. . .

"Then his parents would have every reason to believe he was a ghost and think it was okay to experiment on him. Jesus fucking _Christ_. . ."

Walker hadn't realized he'd been thinking out loud until Spectra finished the thought for him. But even with the profanity, he couldn't deny that her conclusion was the same as his. This was sick and wrong and _disgusting_, the pieces fitting together. It made his stomach tie itself in knots.

He shouldn't have made the coffee.

"Even _if_ this is all right and we're not just crazy assholes trying to explain whatever the fuck nonsense happened to Danny," Spectra growled, "it doesn't help Danny in the slightest. We should come up with something to help him, not spout crack-theories at each other until he wakes up."

Walker stared at her for a long moment.

Penelope Spectra was unlike anyone he'd ever made himself deal with before. She was selfish and impulsive and had a _filthy_ mouth. But she was also intelligent and intuitive and she'd been able to come up with a way to get Danny towards a better place faster than he could've ever thought possible. And as he sat there, staring down a woman who glared up at him just as fiercely – which was an accomplishment in of itself – Walker came to the conclusion that he'd made the right choice in getting her to help him.

"Alright then, sugar. Where do we start?"

"We start with you not calling me 'sugar', _Tex_."

Now, if he could just figure out what the heck was going on in her head at any given point in time. . .

**A/N:**

**Holy fucking shit, so it's been two weeks? I'm sorry? **

**Finals were a damn nightmare, and this chapter just DID NOT want to cooperate with me. Not to mention I have a new puppy and a new job. Life's funny sometimes. But I worked really hard on this, and I think it's somewhat acceptable. Even though I was very mean to both Jazz and Johnny. . . **

**Please don't kill me. **

**It'll get better eventually, I swear. . . **


	7. Chapter 7

Be Jazz Fenton.

Be six-years-old and watch everything fall apart. Watch the house grow dark and Mommy cry all the time. Watch your Daddy stop being like Daddy anymore, watch him get angry too easy and smell funny, strong and sharp. Watch everything get dirty as you count days.

Counting is very hard for you, hard when nothing else is, and you don't understand why the numbers get all jumbly in your head. Why they run together and flip-flop, cross in your eyes and blur until nothing makes sense anymore. It's why you can only count to twenty when everyone else counts into their hundreds, why you have to have special classes with Mr. Robbins after school sometimes.

The teachers say that you're so smart, very gifted, advanced, but then the numbers come at you like angry bees, buzzing in your head and it doesn't matter what they say because you _know _you're stupid. Dumb and stupid and a big baby because you can't even count past twenty without everything going sideways.

Be Jazz Fenton.

Come home on the school bus and hope hope hope that Mommy will have food for you to eat. Pray that Daddy won't yell at you after looking at your bad math test. It's a D, you know, and it makes your tummy tie in knots to think about how _stupid _math makes you feel, how the numbers don't make sense like letters do. How they make you want to knock your head against the desk and cry, cry, cry until your head hurts and you can't breathe anymore.

The house is cold and Daddy is snoring on the couch. He smells bad like dirty feet and that nasty brown water that he drinks all the time now, so you stay close to the wall, take off your shoes (they hurt your feet) and coat (it's got lots of holes in it) and tip-toe to the kitchen. Mommy is sitting at the table. There's red around her nails, on the table.

Mommy chews her fingers lots now, too, and sometimes they bleed.

Keep your head down. Don't look Mommy in the eye 'cause she doesn't like that. Keep your voice quiet so Daddy doesn't wake up and then ask if there's anything to eat. Say you're very hungry, Mommy, can you please have something warm?

Don't flinch when a hand slams on the table. You should've stayed quiet, you know, but your tummy is making horrible noises. It _hurts_. But then Mommy looks at you and her eyes are scary, not warm or sad or even mad. She looks very cold, like she doesn't _want _to talk to you. Like she doesn't want you at all.

That just makes your tummy hurt worse.

Listen as Mommy asks the question.

"How did you do on your math today?"

Think about what you want to say. Do you want to lie? Tell Mommy that you did good, hope that she'll believe you and you'll get food and a smile, maybe a hug? Do you want to tell the truth? Know that truth sometimes (always) hurts but it's better than being a fibber, know that Mommy always gets madder when you lie and then she'll wake up Daddy and, oh, then won't that be trouble? Bite your lip until it bleeds and clench your fists until they're white.

Tell the truth even though it aches and you feel so _stupid_. So ugly. So bad.

Watch Mommy's eyes grow cold like the air outside – it's almost Christmas but you haven't decorated the tree – and know that there's no food coming. Listen as she hisses like a snake, ugly words that sting worse than getting smacked by tree branches at recess. Look down at your shoes and don't say a word because talking back makes it worse. Everything makes it worse. Because Mommy doesn't want you to look at her, but she doesn't want you to look "weak" either. It's always so confusing.

Look me in the eye, Jasmine, but don't stare. Keep your chin up, Jasmine, but keep your head down. Fight back, Jasmine, but don't you _dare _embarrass me like that ever again.

Don't cry.

Don't you _ever cry like that_!

Once it is over, run away. Up the stairs covered in dust and down the hall that smells stale. Don't try to keep track of the stains on the wallpaper because there's new ones every day. Daddy likes to throw things sometimes. Just like Daddy yells sometimes and Daddy hits sometimes and Daddy says he hates you sometimes.

He doesn't mean it – honest.

Throw your backpack on the bed and sit very quietly. Pet Bearbert's stuffed ears to keep your hands from doing something bad. Look at the math papers sitting beside you. Hate yourself. Cry quietly. Never _ever _let Mommy hear because it makes her mad now, not sad like it used to. Know that everything is breaking apart.

Ignore the grumbling in your tummy and try to go to sleep after you finish all your take-home assignments. The book you're reading for class is called "Charlotte's Web." They're trying to kill Wilbur, the farmer and his wife. Sometimes, when you sleep, you dream of spinning a pretty web except instead of "humble" it says "Danny."

Sometimes, when you sleep, you see a little boy with white hair crying for you.

You don't sleep a lot anymore.

Wake up in the morning and realize it's even colder. Shiver because the tile is freezing your toes. Because there aren't enough blankets without holes. Because you want your Danny back and it's been. . . the numbers jumble and you try to count in groups again. Four twenties – which is eighty, Mr. Pendergrass said so – and then four more. Eighty-four.

Eighty-four days and Danny still isn't home and you _miss _him.

Don't cry. Pull on pants, ones that aren't dirty and don't have holes, then find your pretty blue shirt. The one with butterflies that Danny likes. Find sneakers. They're a little small, dirty like everything else is, and the left shoe-string is coming undone at the end. But Mommy and Daddy were fighting a lot last night. Yelling until very, very late. They don't have time to buy you new shoes now.

These will be okay.

Walk on tippy-toes downstairs and make sure Daddy isn't at the table. He isn't. He's snoring on the couch, mouth wide open. There's a bottle spilling onto the carpet. Everything smells. Mommy isn't here. She's probably in the lab, where she always is, the _very _bad smell locked away like everything else when the door is shut. You look at the door for a second and rub at your arms – there are fingerprints there this morning 'cause Mommy had grabbed just a little too hard when she yelled - and decide to get on the bus anyway. You don't need breakfast. Don't need hugs or kisses or a goodbye (even though you miss all those things a lot).

You think that you need Danny, though.

The bus is crowded and it's a different kind of stink. You've never liked being in crowded places. Too many people, too many noises, too many smells, _too much_. But Mommy and Daddy don't drive you to school anymore. So here you are.

A paper wad hits you in the back of the head. Stay quiet. Look away. Pretend it didn't happen and _maybe _they'll leave you alone. Cling to your book until the cover makes red marks on your fingers. Ignore how your tummy knots and your eyes sting.

If Danny was here, he'd give you a hug and smile and say that you're the greatest, Sissy, don't let them be mean!

But Danny _isn't _here.

"Hey, freak, are you deaf or something? I'm talking to you!"

This is an older boy. His name is Christian, and he's in Mrs. Mendenkamp's fifth-grade class. You don't know what you did wrong. But he doesn't like you, calls you freak and hits you with papers and says lots of mean things. Sometimes you wonder if his daddy is mean like your Daddy has been, which makes you sad, so just stay quiet. Because he'll mostly ignore you if you don't say anything.

A hard yank and your head _hurts_.

"I said, _I'm talking to you!_"

There are tears in your eyes because this _hurts_, like that time Daddy accidentally shoved you against a wall or when Mommy says it should've been you. But you don't say anything because the words that you love so much just won't work. Christian is very big, kind of chubby, and his eyes are small and mean. He's got an ugly look on his face.

Pretend that you're not scared.

Pretend that you don't care.

Pretend. . .

"Leave her alone, jerk!"

There's another boy and he slams against Christian, not much bigger than you, but it works. Somehow, it works. Christian lets go, sneers some more and calls you "freak" before he sits down and laughs with his stupid friends. Your fingers are shaking and your tummy hurts and you know it's rude, but you can't stop staring.

Dash Baxter sits beside you with a thump, his backpack in his lap, and he looks nervous?

"Are you okay? Christian's a big jerk. You shouldn't let him be mean to you like that 'cause he won't stop."

You blink. Once, twice, three times. Your mouth feels dry and your head is fuzzy. Confused. Why is Dash being nice? You got in big trouble for hitting him on the playground and now he's sitting beside you on the school bus, looking at you like he's scared. Like he's your friend?

You nod anyway. Pretend this is normal and maybe it will be normal.

Try to ignore how your tummy groans very loudly.

Dash doesn't ignore it. He looks at you with eyes that are blue (very blue) before opening his backpack. He digs around for a minute, pulls out his lunchbox and opens it. Then he hands you a Honey Bun, still in its wrapper.

"Here," he says, "I'm not gonna eat it anyway. Mom never remembers I don't like them."

He's lying, and you know it, because he eats a Honey Bun every day at lunch. But your stomach is growling angrily, trying to reach out and take the food, and Dash is looking very serious. He's got serious eyes, like his daddy does. So grab the cake. Unwrap it but make sure it's okay before you take a bite.

Know that it's the best thing you've ever eaten.

Dash picks at a loose thread in his jeans when you ask, "Why are you being so nice?"

His hair is very blonde up close. It's short except for on top. Not like Danny's, shaggy and long and always messy. Dash's hair always stays in place, does what it's told, and it fits him. He doesn't talk for a little bit. But that's okay. Words are hard for Dash like numbers are hard for you. So you munch on the Honey Bun and wait, try to fix your bows where Christian pulled them apart. It doesn't make the burning on your scalp less or the ache in your arms go away. But it makes you look better.

"I didn't mean to upset you so bad the other day," Dash says, quiet like he's scared of the words. "Paulina told me that if I made you mad, you'd know I liked you."

Blink twice again. "That's silly, Dash."

Watch him shrug. "I'm not real good with words. But I thought Paulina would help me. I guess I was wrong. I'm sorry I made you cry."

He. . . he likes you?

"You like me?"

Dash looks at you funny, like you've said something weird. "Yeah! You're real smart, and you've got pretty hair, and you _always _know how to answer questions in class! Why didn't you think I liked you?"

Because _nobody_ likes you. The other kids have always called you a freak, a know-it-all, a weirdo, a loser. They chase you at recess with sticks and hit you with mud-balls and pull at your hair. But then you think and realize Dash only did those things when Paulina asked him to. Only threw mud when Kwan was laughing, like it was a joke. Dash is new, didn't go to kindergarten with you.

The other kids can be very mean to him sometimes – that's why he tries to be louder and bigger.

"Nobody's ever liked me except Danny."

Your voice sounds very small. The bus is roaring, kids getting up and grabbing bags as it stops outside Amity Elementary. Dash is wearing a serious look again, blue eyes very blue in his head. "Well, that's dumb. I like you plenty. Want to be friends?"

_Want to be friends?_

Nobody has _ever_ wanted to be your friend before. Feel your heart go tight and your fingers are shaking again. But remember to smile because this is happy. This is something normal even though nothing else is. Even though you're stupid and weird and have a mommy and daddy that don't love you anymore. Even though Danny is gone (eighty-four days) and you miss him so, so much it hurts. This can be new. This can be fun.

Smile wider.

"Yeah. We can be friends."

Watch as Dash grins and it makes his face seem brighter. Feel strange as he pulls you up by one hand and holds it all the way out the door. Listen as he talks about the book you're reading for class, how he's only on the second chapter because he can't seem to make the letters stay still on the page. Tell him you have the same problem, except with numbers, and watch as his eyes get big in his head.

Be Jazz Fenton.

And learn what it's like to be normal for a second.

Be Jazz Fenton.

And as the day goes on, as you learn that Dash doesn't have any brothers or sisters and his favorite color is green and he wants to be a Green Bay Packer when he grows up, pretend that this is how it can be for always. Pretend that you can make as many friends as you want. Ones like Dash, who listens with his very serious eyes and smiles when you laugh at his bad jokes. Don't get chased at recess for the first time since kindergarten because Dash tells Kwan to stuff it and sits next to you. Explain how there's still little birds that live here even though it's winter and smile when he tells you that's cool.

He thinks birds who stay cold are tough.

Ride home on the bus with dread in your tummy and hold tight to your backpack. Swallow hard when it stops at your house.

"Hey, you'll ride the bus tomorrow, right?"

Yes, you will, because Mommy doesn't want to drive you anymore and Daddy will be sleeping.

"Yeah, I'll ride."

Dash smiles and it's bright like the sunshine. "Alright! I'll save you a seat, 'kay?"

Smile back even though it feels a little stiff. "'kay."

Get off the bus. Go in the house, which smells worse, and tiptoe. Mommy and Daddy are fighting again, you can hear it through the lab door, so make sure that they don't hear it when you go upstairs. Something breaks against the wall. Mommy yells real loud, words you can't make out but probably don't make sense anyways. Do your worksheets with the door shut and try to remember the math tricks that Dash told you about, try to make sense of the numbers that don't want to line up.

Is thirty bigger or thirty-three? You can never tell – too many squiggles.

Hug Bearbert Einstein to your chest as your room gets dark, listen to your tummy rumble, and wish you had a Honey Bun.

Be Jazz Fenton.

Wish you had your Danny back.

~*O*~

danny

wakes

up

and he's very confused. he's warm. safe. wrapped in very soft blankets and wearing _clothes_, not a jumpsuit, no hurt. why again? doesn't remember. too hard to think. wants more sleep, please, no more hurt.

snuggles back into a something under his cheek and it _moves_ and. . .

danny remembers now.

it makes his head hurt, his heart hurt, and that man named johnny had said there was something _wrong _with him, wrong wrong wrong and he just doesn't know _what _anymore, doesn't know _why_ and it all twists up in his tummy, behind his eyes mommy, I'm sorry why can't I see? even though they still feel all achy.

he sucks in some air, tries to breathe, but he's swimming in honey again. except it's not honey, it's green, thick sticky and gross like when he came out of the straw-hole, when he met mr. walker, and danny doesn't. . . ?

it's not _right _and he doesn't _understand _and. . .

"Danny, baby, it's alright. Sweetie, I'm right here. You're just fine."

soft in his ear, very quiet. not mean like mommy or loud like daddy or growly like mr. walker. pretty and nice like jazzy. he remembers now. holds tight to ms. penny because _she _understand and she said it would be all better it's a trick don't believe her and danny thinks that this would be nice if the world wasn't so scary. if he wasn't swimming in sticky-green and his mommy and daddy loved him and maybe, just maybe, he can be a good boy again?

he isn't very good, not yet, but he's _trying_, please?

hands in his hair, fingers very gentle, and danny tries not to hold so tight. what if he hurts her? that's very bad, not good at all. sometimes he used to hurt jazzy when he hugged too hard and she'd look at him with her big-sissy eyes and say _no, danny, you've gotta be nice!_

but jazzy also came home with big bruises sometimes, purple and green under her pink and blue sweaters, and danny always had to be super extra careful when that happened. he misses jazzy, misses bearbert einstein and bear aldrin and even mommy where's danny ghost?! and daddy I'll tear you apart before they didn't love him anymore.

"That's it, sweetheart. Shhh, I've got you. That must've been some nap, huh?"

nap?

oh, a nap. he was dreaming? he'd been dreaming?

danny thinks he might be shaking again and his lips won't stop wobbling, nose all stuffy and he wants to cry again. wants to curl up in a ball and sleep until it all goes away, until everything is better, except it's _never _better, right? because he's a very bad boy and bad boys don't get good things, don't let happy things happen, and he doesn't deserve the clothes and the hugs and the kisses and the food because he's just the _worst _little boy, he's sure.

because he made his mommy and daddy hate him except he didn't know _how_.

'_m sorry for bein' bad_. . .

his throat feels hot and it hurts and his mouth tastes funny, like he's been sucking on dirty pennies, and danny feels ms. penny cup the back of his head again.

"Danny, baby, can you look at me for a second? Please?"

nope.

danny doesn't want to.

he wants to curl up in his blankets and hold tight and be _safe_. looking means that someone sees him and even though ms. penny is very nice don't trust her don't trust it you're bad ghost ghost ghost he doesn't want her to realize how bad he is. how much he doesn't deserve. . .

the warm-soft _moves_, and then danny is sitting up, his bottom on something that feels kind of like his bed and surrounded by something he thinks might be legs, but he's not sure? sometimes mommy would sit criss-cross applesauce with him in her lap and this feels like it a little. but there's still blankets, still hugs, and danny snuggles tighter against ms. penny because what if she _leaves_?

he doesn't want to look but he doesn't want her to _leave_ and his heart hurts and he's so confused. . .

"Danny? Honey, please look at me. I promise you're not in trouble."

liar liar liar liar it's a trick she's lying don't trust her more hurt hate you liar liar **liar**

danny does as he's told.

lip trembling, tummy in knots, eyes aching. he looks up and ms. penny looks back, smiles at him and it's very nice. except she looks tired and _sad_, red around her eyes, and danny hates it, hates that he's made her sad, all his fault and he _knows it_, so he looks down at her shirt instead, plays with the collar and sees that his skin is kind of green?

'_m sorry. no sad, 'm sorry_.

fingers through his hair again, very gentle, and ms. penny takes a big deep breath. it comes out in a_ whoosh!_ and danny tries not to flinch but it's very hard because loud noises are _bad_, just like he is, but he thinks ms. penny won't hurt him. she's been so nice to him.

"Danny? Sweetheart, I need you to look at me again, please."

she always asks please. ms. spelka would be very proud because she says that manners are very important.

he looks again.

the smile is gone, and ms. penny just looks serious instead, but not scary like mr. walker can be. where is mr. walker? don't know. oh well. a thumb wipes at his cheek and it's so _warm_ that danny can't help but lean into it. he likes being warm, likes being safe, likes being here. please don't make him leave?

"Danny, baby, I need you to listen to me very carefully. Can you do that?"

listen?

danny can listen.

so he nods and ms. penny reaches up and holds his hands. they're very small next to hers, too skinny and too green and not-right. but she's very gentle, rubs her thumb over his knuckles and it's soft, a happy feeling.

"Sweetheart, you have nothing to be sorry for."

but. . .

but he's a very bad little boy, a _ghost_, mommy said so, and he's made her sad so that means he's been bad and that means he has to say he's sorry, has to say something to make it right and he just doesn't understand. . .?

danny doesn't understand a lot of things now.

"You are not bad, Danny. There's nothing wrong with you. You're a wonderful little boy and some very bad things have happened to you. But we're going to make them better now, alright?"

she has very bright eyes and they're very serious and danny squeezes ms. penny's hands hard. make it better? how. . . how is she going to make it better? make him not be a bad little boy a ghost a liar _evil_? and danny's throat makes noise again, more sand and green-honey in his lungs and he says _not bad?_ because how can he not be bad when mommy and daddy said so?

ms. penny looks so sad.

so very very sad.

and she squeezes back but it's gentle, like she doesn't want to hurt him. like _she doesn't want to hurt him_. danny's heart aches like his eyes and something leaks down his cheeks and he thinks he might be crying, except it doesn't feel right, not like normal-crying more like sticky-syrup-green-honey.

"No, baby. You're not bad. You're not bad at all."

danny feels his head ache and his throat burns and he says _but 'm a ghost, mommy says so. _and there's something different in ms. penny's eyes now and it's sharp, bright bright green that glows, that burns, that makes him shrink. except ms. penny shushes, kisses his forehead and rocks some more. the blankets are soft on his cheeks.

"Just because you're a ghost doesn't mean that you're bad, Danny. Your mommy was wrong to tell you that, just like it was wrong that they hurt you. Do you understand?"

mommy. . . mommy was _wrong_?

danny doesn't understand. because he's four-years-old and daddy said that mommy was _always _right. so how could mommy be wrong? how could he not be bad?! he doesn't understand, doesn't make sense, and everything

t

i

l

t

s

at the edges. he holds tighter to ms. penny's fingers until his knuckles go white, tries to make the words come out but they just _won't_, like they're glued to his mouth, and it makes him so _mad_. why is he so scared, why is he so awful, why is he so stupid?! he doesn't want to be bad but he doesn't want her to be angry, but his mouth just won't _work_ and it's _awful_ and. . .

"Danny, baby, it's okay. You don't have to understand just yet. But I want you to know that you're not bad, and no one here is going to hurt you. Alright?"

he looks up and ms. penny is smiling again, but it's sad, and he wants to curl up in a ball and disappear. go away. because he made her sad _again_, and he hates that, doesn't mean that. but he just can't seem to stop and doesn't know what he did wrong?

but she leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead hard, ran her fingers through his hair.

danny pushed into it, felt warmer from the inside out. his fingers ached from holding too hard, and he tried to relax them. skin burning, bones all creaky, white-knuckles turning red. he let go. and ms. penny pulled him into a hug, let him bury against her throat and twist her hair in his fingers. she smells like raspberries and cream.

she smells like jazzy and danny wonders if jazzy is happy, if she misses him, if she thinks he's a good boy like ms. penny does.

he wishes. . .

"You're so good, Danny. Don't let _anyone_ tell you different, alright?"

oh, he wishes he could believe, wishes that were true. and maybe it is? maybe he's a ghost and maybe he's bad, but maybe he's also a boy and he's also good? it's hard to know anymore. his head hurts. everything hurts.

his tummy growls loudly and danny squeaks, freezes, only ms. penny _laughs_ and there's another kiss on the top of his head.

"Are you hungry, little man? It sounds like it."

hungry – yeah, he's very hungry. his tummy feels rumbly and grumbly and he wants food please? no more hungry please?

he moves and it scares him a little, makes him squeak and hold tight to ms. penny as she stands up. she laughs again, bounces him, and lets him wrap his legs around her. there's a hand on the back of his hand, an arm under his bottom. he feels safe like this. he feels _safe_.

"C'mon – I think Walker's making lunch. How does grilled cheese and tomato soup sound?"

danny remembers grilled cheese. crunchy and gooey and yummy. he doesn't remember tomato soup, though. but chicken noodle soup was good, salty and lots of chunks, so he thinks tomato will be good too. so he nods his head, plays with the ends of ms. penny's hair as she walks out of the strange room. he didn't even look around. too much new, too much strange, too much.

she kisses the top of his head again.

"You're going to be just fine, baby. I promise."

it's very quiet, a whisper, and danny smiles a little bit because quiet is good.

they walk into the kitchen and mr. walker is sitting at the table, face grumpy, and it smells very nice. his tummy rumbles.

"Hey, punk. Y'all ready to eat?"

yes, yes, yes!

he wants to eat and eat and eat until his tummy can't take any more! danny nods, a little too hard because it makes his head go spinny, and mr. walker laughs. ms. penny laughs, too, but very quietly. like how mommy would laugh when she didn't want him to know she was laughing. but that's okay.

this is okay.

really.

you're evil bad awful ghost never right gonna die I hate you

everything is just fine; ms. penny said so.

lies lies lies she doesn't love you don't believe her lies

he believes her.

~*O*~

Data Entry One

Date: 9/16/2003

Subject: Ghost Child

Records Maintained by Madeleine Fenton via digital audio recorder

_Subject has been deemed the "ghost child" due to its seemingly preferred physical form. Actual age cannot be determined until further tests have been conducted; however, it is likely that this ghost is newly formed, as its ectoplasm is remarkably unique in composition. Multiple tissue samples have been collected thus far. Tests concerning possible genetic structure, ectoplasmic markers, and possible power-sets are being ran by Jack Fenton. _

_ Subject maintained its insistence that it was, in fact, one Daniel Fenton both pre- and post-capture, and continues to persist in its mimicry. Physical form for the ghost does resemble Daniel Fenton, a four-year-old child, and subject does seem to be able to mimic facial structure very well. However, coloration is still sub-human, as subject maintains white hair and green eyes, a key feature in many humanoid ghosts captured. However, the real Danny remains missing, and despite intense interrogation, subject refuses to disclose his location. _

_ Subject also maintains the illusion of pain, which has been used multiple times by captured ghosts to trick scientists into a false sense of sympathy, allowing for escape. Ghosts are cunning, yes, but Jack and I have yet to positively identify any truth to this illusion. As a result, we will continue to conduct tests and interrogations until further notice. _

_ Subject is being detained in Fenton Laboratories, under constant visual and audio monitoring systems maintained by Jack and myself. _

_ Further information to be documented at a later date._

Data Entry Four

Date: 10/20/2003

Subject: Ghost Child

Records Maintained by Madeleine Fenton via digital audio recorder

_ Subject seems to be in a declining state, despite constant infusions of fresh ectoplasm. It is unclear as to why this is, possibly due to the unusual genetic structure that the ghost seems to have. However, it has been determined that the ghost possesses unusually adept mimicry and camouflage capabilities, allowing it to copy vocal tones and speech patterns in a way that is. . . remarkably unsettling. _

_ Further examinations of internal organs revealed a structure remarkably similar to that of a human, with fully functional cardiac, renal, and lymphatic systems. Respiratory structures are also identical to that of a human; however, it was noted that subject did not need to breathe as frequently or regularly as a human. Respiration rate under synthesized anesthetic maintained an average of eight breaths a minute. Cardiac systems also differed in that the "core" of the ghost maintained ectoplasm flow, not a heart. Visual documentation of the physical appearance has been added to this file. _

_ Despite extensive interrogation and prolonged detainment, subject refuses to let go of its illusion and disclose the whereabouts of one Daniel Fenton. Even psychotropic drugs such as sodium thiopental and scopolamine do not dislodge the idea, and so it is calling into question the effectiveness of such drugs on ghost biology. The refusal to own up to being a ghost is not altogether abnormal, and so Jack and I have moved on to different tactics to try and both collect data and gather information._

_ It still maintains its false-pain act. _

_ Looking the subject in the eyes has become nearly unbearable._

_ Its acting skills are remarkable, and for that, I want to break it apart. _

_ Further information to be documented at a later date. _

Data Entry Eight

Date: 11/02/2003

Subject: Ghost Child

Records Maintained by Madeleine Fenton via digital audio recorder

_ Surgical enucleation of subject was a success. Due to absence of pain anesthetization was not required; however, numerous restraints were required to keep struggling to a minimum. Because of such aggressive physical movements, one eye was damaged during removal. But one intact eye is still a blessing, and studies have found remarkable similarities in structure, physiological composition, and pharmacological response. Still, there were anatomical discrepancies that must be noted. _

_ Upon removal, it was noted that subject appeared to have a nictitating membrane, or third eyelid, which protected the eye from real-world particulate matter. The membrane was clear and tough, requiring intense physical pressure to cut through, even with fresh tools. It must also be noted that though it was thought previously that ghosts have heightened senses of sight, smell, and hearing, the overall physical structure of the eye itself lends little credence to the theory, as it does not possess extra rods or cones, and the cornea is near-identical to that of a human's._

_ It must be noted that this is following humanoid ghost theory, not that of bestial-type ghost theory, which are categorically different and must be treated as such. _

_ Subject has become increasingly silent as interrogation continues, likely unable to maintain its vocal mimicry for such an extended period of time. In a way, I'm glad. I don't think I could handle listening to my son's voice come from a ghost for much longer. Either way, we still have not received Danny's location. It's beginning to get desperate, even with all the research advancements and progress we are making. _

_ Jack and I are getting worried. _

Data Entry Ten

Date: 11/12/2003

Subject: Ghost Child

Records Maintained by Madeleine Fenton via digital audio recorder

_Subject is showing definite signs of physical deterioration. Malnutrition symptoms such as brittle hair and nails, low energy, and constant shivering have been evident in the past several days. Subject can no longer answer questions in complete sentences. Likely due to the malnutrition affecting cognitive function. _

_ Despite constant influxes of fresh ectoplasm and nutrients via intravenous drip, subject continues to deteriorate at a rapid pace. _

_ He still hasn't told us where Danny is._

_ This has to stop now. _

Data Entry Fourteen

Date: 11/21/2003

Subject: Ghost Child

Records Maintained by Madeleine Fenton via digital audio recorder

_Tests have revealed that subject has entered multi-organ failure, likely due to starvation, despite constant nutritional supplements and ectoplasm infusions. It seems as though subject termination is imminent. _

_ While physical mimicry has been maintained throughout the period of the subject's detainment, all vocal and cognitive mimicry has stopped. Subject hasn't spoken in nearly two weeks. It maintains the illusion of pain; however, it accomplishes this only in small sounds – easily corrected, if one knows how – and facial expressions. This illusion will most likely be maintained until subject is fully deceased. _

_ It is curious, however, that a ghost is capable of dying. Ghosts are thought to be physical, ectoplasmic manifestations of post-human consciousness, incapable of feeling and only able to mimic the emotions and characteristics of the person they once were. But there are ghosts who can take multiple forms. Ghosts with abilities the like of which any normal human has never seen. _

_ So this begs the question: what happens to ghosts when they die?_

_ He still hasn't told us where Danny is. _

_ I hope ghosts have a hell. _

Data Entry Final

Date: 12/02/2003

Subject: Ghost Child

Records Maintained by Madeleine Fenton via digital audio recorder

_Subject was noted to be deceased at 10:30 a.m. Cause of death determined to be multiple organ-failure brought on by malnutrition. _

_ But I don't. . . _

_ I don't __**understand. **_

_ It looks like Danny. Subject has been detained for approximately three months. Not once did it drop the physical mimicry of my son. We have never gathered his whereabouts either. But. . . after it died. . . it still looks like Danny. This shouldn't be possible._

_**How is this possible?!**_

_ There's no ectoplasm flow, no respiration, no discernible electrochemical activity in the brain. But its physical form hasn't changed. It should have reverted to its original form upon death. That has been scientifically proven time and again by Jack and myself, the subject Amorpho being one such example. But this ghost hasn't changed. _

_ It's definitely dead. _

_ But it still looks like my son, right down the birthmark on his left shoulder. _

_ I just. . . _

_ I want my baby back and I don't understand. _

_ I DON'T UNDERSTAND!_

(_unintelligible shrieking, crashes, static_)

Subject: Ghost Child

File Status: Concluded

**A/N:**

**Okay, so don't hate me for how short this is, but this chapter was an absolute MOTHERFUCKER to try and push out. For some reason, none of the right words wanted to come to me for anything following Jazz's bit. I actually contemplated leaving it at just that bit, somewhat of a micro-chapter if you will. But then I decided to stop being a pussy and just powered on through. This is the final, really fucked-up result. **

**Also, a note on Jazz as a character. **

**It has been noted in a previous chapter that six-year-olds are capable of counting past twenty. And, normally, you would be correct in this observation. My little brother could already do basic multiplication tables and division at six. However, as smart as Jazz is, I always had this headcanon that she struggled with math like me. Because of this, I stumbled upon the idea that Jazz would suffer from dyscalculia, which is essentially dyslexia for math. I know, I know, I just keep throwing shit at these poor soft babies, but just bear with me okay? **

**Giving Jazz a learning disability, in my eyes, only makes her that much stronger of a character. Because she _is _smart and she _is _intuitive. . . she just can't tell you whether or not three is smaller than fifteen. It will play a role later, along with her developing friendship with Dash. Fucking fight me on this one, I dare you. Dash will not be an asshole in this. He will be my soft, precious little nugget who deserves the entire world. ***

**Also, in this AU, Jazz is in the class Danny would have been in. With the exception of Tucker, who will remain Danny's age. Sam doesn't exist. Because fuck that hoe is annoying to write. **

**Anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed this, and feel free to leave me any comments or constructive criticism in the box below!**


	8. Chapter 8

First off, she had _not _intended on taking a nap right along with Danny. Naps were either for the very old or the very young, and she didn't need to be put to bed like a damn toddler thank you very fucking much. Second, Walker could take his super comfy couch and stupid-soft blankets and shove them entirely up his own ass. Because they were asking for damn trouble. And third, she needed to stop falling asleep in awkward fucking positions – her neck was _screaming _at her.

Penelope tried not to groan as she woke, knowing full-well that if she did, it'd probably send the little boy snuggled into her chest into another panic-attack. Which he definitely did_ not _fucking need. But her neck felt like someone had shoved a knife between her vertebrae, she was sweating balls, and everything about this day so far – besides maybe breakfast – had sucked harder than a five-dollar whore on Black Friday.

Coming up with a game-plan had been more than a bit challenging. Because how the actual _fuck _someone managed to salvage the psyche of a child who'd literally been fileted alive was somewhat beyond her. But they'd come up with a reasonable course of action: take things slow, introduce him to what ghosts were over time, and explain how his own perceptions were flawed. Positive encouragements, figuring out and noting his triggers, etc. Really, it wasn't like this was a genius methodology. But execution. . . _that _was going to be a motherfucker.

Penelope was brought out of her musings when Danny whimpered in his sleep. He'd curled up atop her chest, head nestled against her collarbone, and his thin fingers were wrapped tightly in her shirt. They were _freezing_ – she'd noticed that everything but whatever Danny touched was uncomfortably hot – and every time they brushed her bare skin, it sent a chill racing down her spine.

Of _course_ the kid was going to be a damn ice-jockey. . .

It was only _after_ she'd sighed in exhaustion that Penelope realized the suddenness of the movement. And she promptly kicked herself when she realized that Danny had frozen in place, panic taut in every muscle of his skeletal frame. The hyperventilation came _after _he'd stopped breathing for a long moment, tiny lungs sucking on air and thin chest ballooning with each gasp that the little boy managed.

"Danny, baby, it's alright," she coaxed, voice low. "Sweetie, I'm right here. You're just fine."

Whatever nightmare realm Danny had found himself in, Penelope didn't want to know, but she was pleased when he seemed to recognize the sound of her voice. The manic vibrations of his body calmed somewhat, and he clung so tightly to her it bordered on painful. But – for the first time since she found herself in the Ghost Zone – Penelope found that she didn't mind a tight hug.

Danny's hair was coarse and brittle under her fingertips, but the motion always seemed to soothe him. She shushed him gently, coaxing the four-year-old through his panic. After a moment or two, his fingers started to relax their grip, his knuckles flushing a deeper green as the ectoplasm-flow returned to them. Danny took a breath, ragged but no longer gasping, and relief became a palpable thing in her gut. Very gently, Penelope brushed a kiss across his temple, fairly certain he didn't notice it, and managed to find her voice through the rage that threatened to choke her.

_(This is a fucking __**baby**__, you goddamn monsters, and you fucking __**broke him**__, and he was precious and perfect and __**yours**__ and I would've done __**anything **__to keep. . . no, don't go there, do NOT fucking go there, bitch, keep it together, do not cry, Penelope, DO NOT FUCKING CRY)_

"That's it, sweetheart. Shhh, I've got you. That must've been some nap, huh?"

She tried to joke because that was her way of coping with shit – horribly tasteless jokes and sarcasm – but it didn't seem to work. Penelope could feel Danny's lips wobbling, ectoplasm likely seeping into her shirt again. He sniffled pitifully, entire body shaking from head to foot. It was nerves, she knew, but that didn't mean she had to fucking _like it._ No kid should ever be that nervous. Not when they had an adult to protect them.

Danny, though, had only been around adults that damaged him. Hurt him. _Broke him_.

"'m sorry for bein' bad."

Penelope felt her heart crack down the middle.

It was a rasping plea for forgiveness in a voice that absolutely _should not _have belonged to a four-year-old child. He sounded absolutely resigned to his fate as a "bad boy," like he didn't believe he deserved to _ever _be treated like an actual person. It was so fucking _sick_, and Penelope silently made a vow that his parents were going to die choking on their own blood.

Cupping the back of his head with one hand, Penelope and whispered in his ear, "Danny, baby, can you look at me for a second? Please?"

For just the briefest second, she thought Danny shook his head "no." Which would have been a counter-intuitive sign of progress because denying an adult anything would've gone directly against his conditioning. But then the little boy buried his face in the crook of her neck, his nose _freezing _against the bare skin, and Penelope knew that she wouldn't be going anywhere at this rate. He was too caught up in his own panic, swarmed by the crippling thought that he wasn't good enough or whatever fucking nonsense he'd been taught.

Her resolve hardened when a tiny whimper escaped the bundle of shaking limbs and blankets.

Penelope slowly maneuvered her way upright, wincing as the crick in her neck protested. She crossed her legs Indian-style and settled Danny's slight frame in the center, being sure to keep his blankets tucked around him. He startled just a tad, stiffening like a corpse against her chest, only to press forward more insistently when he realizes that they've only sat up. He was squeezing with all his might but it felt like _nothing_, his wasted arms holding little to no real strength.

Jesus _fucking _Christ, she might've been a bitch, but someone would have to be an absolute monster to not be fucked up by this. . .

Swallowing the lump that had formed in her throat, Penelope gives Danny a tiny squeeze before trying again. "Danny? Honey, please look at me. I promise you're not in trouble."

She could feel him trembling against her, anxiously deciding between doing as he was told and ignoring it for the safety of ignoring eye-contact. But after a moment or two, Danny managed to look up at her. His lower lip trembled, those big empty eye-sockets staring up at her in apprehension, and Penelope made the sudden realization that she would be hard-pressed to deny this little boy _anything. _

At all.

_Ever_.

But he didn't need to know about the sour taste that left in her mouth or just how badly her chest ached when she looked at him. So Penelope smiled, and the expression pulled too hard on the corners of her lips. It felt like someone had used their fingers to make it happen, stretching and tugging on the skin and muscles until she tasted copper on her tongue. Smiling while Danny suffered felt. . . wrong.

Apparently, Danny picked up on that.

He dropped his head after only a second, choosing instead to stare at her collarbone as his thin fingers toyed with the edge of her top. This close, she could see the freckles smattered over the bridge of his nose, stark against his too-pale skin. The tips of his hair just brushed them, and Penelope resisted the urge to sweep them out of his face – it would probably just trigger another panicked spiral.

"'m sorry," he rasped, and the sound of his damaged vocal-cords sent an entirely different kind of chill up her spine. "No sad. 'm sorry."

. . . no.

Fucking _no_.

This sweet little boy was _not _about to goddamn blame himself because his parents were dick-holes and she couldn't make her damn face use its inside voice. Danny was four _fucking _years old. He didn't need to blame himself for her shit on top of everything he was dealing with. It was stupid and wrong and. . .

So _this _was what it was like to have a conscience.

Surprise! It fucking _blew_.

His hair was thick, and she took care not to scratch at his scalp as she carded her fingers through the fluffy strands. Danny relaxed a tad under her ministrations. Only to stiffen again when she let another heavy sigh escape, obviously trying not to flinch again. The hole that should've been her heart widened.

"Danny?" Penelope coaxed gently. "Sweetheart, I need you to look at me again, please."

Very slowly, Danny did as he was asked. His expression was still _so _timid, apprehension that bled directly into anxiety. Penelope couldn't bring herself to smile when he looked at her like that. There was a bruise on his cheek, just starting to darken. He must've hit his face during an earlier panic attack. Gently, she ran her thumb along the mark, tracing the edge where it rested underneath the right eye-socket. Danny nuzzled into her touch immediately, eyelids drooping. Her chest ached.

He was so _cold_.

"Danny, baby, I need you to listen to me very carefully. Can you do that?"

He looked confused and wary. Penelope sat quietly as he considered, weighing the pros and cons in that little head of his. She almost smiled – Danny was clever for his age, it was apparent. But he managed a tiny nod, still apprehensive. She gently clasped the hands wrapped in her blouse, rubbing her thumbs over the back of his tiny knuckles. They were so bony, fragile compared to her own.

Danny looked up at her, his expression contorted in wonder, and Penelope felt the words come to her.

"Sweetheart, you have nothing to be sorry for."

That was a fact.

A four-year-old child was not responsible for the actions of his parents, who betrayed every trust an innocent child placed in them and _shattered him_. A four-year-old child was not responsible for her reactions and for his, for the scars or the panics or anything in between. A _four-year-old child_ was _not responsible_ for any of the shit that the world had put him through. This wasn't fair.

She knew that, knew that the universe was never fair. But that didn't mean it didn't hurt or that it was acceptable. Danny looked so confused about it all. Like he didn't believe her.

He _didn't believe her_.

"You are not bad, Danny. There's nothing wrong with you." She kept her voice soft, and even though her expression was still serious, the little boy had latched onto her in wonder. "You're a wonderful little boy and some very bad things have happened to you. But we're going to make them better now, alright?"

Penelope meant it.

Every word.

Because Danny was looking up at her like she had grown a second head, like he didn't expect her to be so kind, like he still thought he was awful. Those tiny hands – dwarfed by her own and so _fragile_ – squeezed her own. His knuckles turned white again, and the disbelief on his little face was palpable. She noted how strained his breathing grew, traced the droplets of ectoplasm that crept over his thin cheeks.

Christ Almighty, this _hurt. . . _

"Not bad?" Danny's voice was little more than a whisper, pitiful and hopeful.

Penelope wasn't a crier. Never had been and probably never would be because people were shit and the world sucked and she'd grown used to it. But this. . . this was a whole other level. She was Feeling Things and it was _awful_. Eyes wet, throat trying to close up on her, she squeezed his tiny hands in return. Gently, though – ghosts were sturdier than their human counterparts, but Danny was still emaciated and weak by comparison.

"No, baby," she managed to choke out. "You're not bad. You're not bad at all."

Danny's body had begun to tremble again, and he looked like he was trying to wrap his damaged psyche around the new information. Penelope tried to take that as a positive sign, because it meant he was willing to listen to her. It meant she could undo at least some of the damage that his jackass parents had managed to inflict.

Didn't mean her already shattered heart didn't fucking disintegrate when he ducked his head and muttered, "But 'm a ghost. Mommy says so."

There was rage and then there was Rage.

Penelope had come to the conclusion that anytime Danny brought up his shit-stick parents, Rage was going to be the general emotion pumping through her chest. But it apparently showed up on her face or in her eyes, because Danny shrank away after a moment. Amazingly, though he didn't have eyes, the swirling ectoplasm in his sockets managed to convey emotions very well. And it kind of, sort of, might have felt fucking _terrible_ that she'd scared him.

She pulled the blankets tighter around the little boy's shoulders and kissed him hard on the forehead. His hair still smelled like the strawberry shampoo they'd used the night before. Soft and comforting. For a second, she could almost believe this was. . .

No.

No, she was not going down that road. It wasn't fair to Danny.

"Just because you're a ghost doesn't mean that you're bad, Danny. Your mommy was wrong to tell you that, just like it was wrong that they hurt you. Do you understand?"

Danny's expression told its own story.

He very obviously didn't understand. His pale forehead creased in obvious distress, his breathing growing ragged and shallow. Penelope held him tight, rocking a little from side to side to try and coax him into relaxing. She watched his mouth work, frustration and confusion and hurt vying for space on his gaunt little face, and her stomach twisted.

This was a _four-year-old. _

"Danny, baby, it's okay." Dammit, she was going soft, because watching him panic like this was making her chest ache. "You don't have to understand just yet. But I want you to know that you're not bad and that no one here is going to hurt you."

Danny looked up at her with such a look of heartfelt disbelief that it made Penelope want to either scream at someone or put her fist through a wall. She managed to smile at him, but it wasn't a very good one apparently, because the little boy immediately shrank in on himself. Guilt played all over his face. She could taste cough medicine in the back of her throat.

That shit wasn't going to fly.

So Penelope leaned forward and kissed him hard on the forehead again, running her fingers through his hair. He melted into the contact, eyelids drooping, and she could feel his grip on her finally starting to relax. She rubbed her fingers over his bony knuckles again. Ectoplasm was pulsing under the surface, a hoard of angry hornets in his skin. They were icy to the touch.

Eventually, Danny let go.

Naturally, Penelope had to pull him into a hug. A proper one, one that he pressed into as only a touch-starved toddler could manage. The tiny button nose that buried itself in the side of her neck was freezing, but his slight weight was familiar, and the way he wrapped her hair around his thin fingers made the depressing-as-hell moment just a little less shitty. Danny even hummed a little.

"You're so good, Danny," she whispered into his ear. "Don't let _anyone _tell you different, alright?"

No one in their right mind would. Because she'd known this kid for all of forty-eight hours and she was pretty sure that his little finger was her new home, the left one that was slightly crooked at the second knuckle.

They sat like that for a long moment, just her and Danny. Wrapped up tight in their blanket fortress and safe from everything outside. Even if it was _just _for a second. Then Danny's stomach growled. Penelope couldn't help it – she laughed. Both at the sudden interruption and Danny's startled, betrayed expression as he looked down at his stomach.

She kissed the top of his head again. "Are you hungry, little man? It sounds like it."

Glancing at the nearest clock – an old-fashioned monstrosity that sat on the mantlepiece – told her it was nearly one. And Penelope swore she could smell food from the kitchen, something rich. . . grilled cheese, maybe? What the fuck ever. She would eat her own shoes if it meant that Danny would end up getting something in his system.

Penelope uncrossed her legs and scooped the little boy up in a fluid motion. He squeaked and clung to her like a little koala, both legs wrapped tight about her waist, but that didn't really make much of a difference. She put a hand to the back of his head, keeping one arm slung under his rump to keep him in place, and chuckled. Slow acclimation to familiar movements like standing up or rolling over would have to do for now. It was all about positive reinforcement.

This shit, she could handle.

"C'mon – I think Walker's making lunch." She glanced into the kitchen. "How does grilled cheese and tomato soup sound?"

It took a second or two, but Danny managed to nod an assent, toying with the ends of her hair all the while. Penelope took note that he didn't look up around at the room. Didn't note the new surroundings or anything of that nature. Instead, he kept his gaze fixed firmly on her collarbone or his fingers.

_Aversion to new environments, likely very easy to externally overstimulate due to extended periods confined to a singular space. . . _

She hated the diagnosis voice. It was annoying.

Another kiss. This one more to comfort herself than him.

"You're going to be just fine, baby. I promise."

It was a promise she damn well intended to keep. Even though most promises she made were shit. Even though she couldn't _possibly _fix all the damage that was inflicted on this poor little boy. Even though there was fucking _Walker _to contend with and a whole truckload of other shit in her life that she didn't even want to think about, much less _deal with_.

But Danny was going to make it through to the other side.

She fucking _meant it_.

~*O*~

Walker still had no clue how Spectra managed to pass out after their conversation, but he figured it had something to do with exhaustion and a lingering hangover. Probably a combination of the two. Either way, he figured leaving a blanket over the pair of them and trying to stay the heck outta Dodge when the inevitable flood came was the best course of action.

So, naturally, he decided to make lunch.

Because that made him feel much less creepy than watching Spectra and the brat sleep. Which he'd done for a little bit until he realized what he was doing. It wasn't like it was _cute _or anything. Nothing of the sort.

The warden grumbled and buttered the piece of sourdough in his hand a bit aggressively.

Heat wafted into his face from the stovetop, and Walker felt the tension in his shoulders start to leech away bit by bit. The conversation with Spectra earlier continued to play on a loop inside his head. The steps they would have to take to make Danny comfortable with them, what they would have to do to help him heal. It all seemed so. . . _flimsy_. There were so many variables to consider.

Walker hated variables – he hated them a lot.

Because variables meant plans going haywire. Meant things going out of place, people running away from their designated positions. Meant _rules being ignored. _Which was a thought that sent a spike of anxiety running up and down his spine. Rules were there to keep things running smoothly, to keep people safe.

If there were no rules, what would anything be? It'd go to Hades in a handbasket, as his mama would say.

Quietly, Walker started putting slices of cheese on the bread, keeping one eye on the tomato soup left to simmer on a nearby burner. He'd thought that maybe making a simple lunch would help calm the little punk down after such a rough morning. Grilled cheese was always Taylor's favorite after a bad day. Especially the kind with cheddar.

The skillet sizzled as he tossed a half-done sandwich onto it, and Walker hummed to himself as the smell of toasting bread wafted through his kitchen. Cooking was always his mama's way of calming down after the horse-hockey hit the fan, and he was glad she'd taught him so much before she'd passed on. Cooking had rules you had to follow, ingredients and temperatures and flavor-combinations. It was methodical. Probably the closest thing to science he ever got around.

There were voices coming from the living room.

Spectra and Danny were awake.

Walker went back to cooking, shirt-sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he flipped sandwiches. He added a bit of bacon to his own. Because bacon went on _everything_.

Sandwiches, pasta, ice cream. . .

Bacon was God's perfect creation.

The voices continued for a few minutes, quiet enough that he couldn't really make anything distinct out. But he could tell by her tone that Spectra was having a hard time keeping it together. He almost (almost being the operative word) felt bad for her. He'd had a rough enough time keeping his temper in check that morning, not to mention trying to convince a four-year-old boy that he didn't deserve to be treated like some sort of test-monkey.

And, like that, his tension headache was back.

Walker finished making lunch and plated everything, making sure Danny and Spectra's plates were sat on the table before fixing his own. Spectra had glanced in at him a little bit ago – he could _feel _those dadgum eyes on him – so they had to be about ready to eat. It was all a matter of sitting at the table and saying a quick word of Grace before things got. . . complicated?

He didn't know another word to describe what things were now that Danny was here.

Spectra walked in a few minutes later, Danny bundled up on her hip. She'd managed to smile for the little boy, one hand cupped against the back of his head as he looked up at her. But it was strained and cracked at the edges. Her eyes were red-rimmed, like she'd been trying to keep from crying, and if it wasn't for how she'd been acting with the little punk from the get-go, Walker would've called her out on a bluff.

As it was, he didn't want to pour salt in a sore.

"Hey, punk," he called. "Y'all ready to eat?"

Danny's head shot up from where it rested against Spectra's collarbone, and he nodded so enthusiastically Walker couldn't help but laugh. Neither could Spectra, apparently, because she chuckled at the little boy. The sound rushed over his skin, gave him goosebumps. He wasn't sure if he liked that or not.

He gestured for the pair to sit next to him. "Well c'mon, then. I ain't waitin' for ya. I could eat myself a whole sow over here."

Spectra rolled her eyes at him, but sat nevertheless. "Do you _have _to talk in euphemisms? I don't know if you've figured this out, cowboy, but we aren't in Texas."

In her lap, Danny reached for a grilled cheese, only to freeze when he realized what he'd done. He glanced up at Walker with horror painted on his face. The warden managed a smile and pushed the plate a little closer to his tiny hand.

"I done told ya, kiddo, ya ain't gonna get in trouble for eatin' or talkin' while yer in my house." He kept his voice low so he wouldn't startle the little boy. "Yer my boy now. Got it?"

Slowly, Danny nodded, taking the sandwich in his thin fingers like it was the most precious thing he'd ever touched. He watched them both warily the entire time, like he couldn't quite believe they wouldn't just snatch the food away from him at any second. Walker clenched his hands so hard under the table he was sure they'd bleed. Spectra's encouraging smile darkened at the edges, red bleeding into her irises.

No child had _ever _looked at him like that, and if he had it his way, Danny would _never _feel like he had to look at him like that again.

The little boy took a tiny bite of his grilled cheese, fingers shaking around the bread. He chewed slowly. Savored every second of that moment.

"Is that good, baby?" Spectra coaxed.

Danny's response was to try and shove half the sandwich in his mouth at once. Walker couldn't help but laugh at the panic on the witch's face as she tried to keep the kid from choking himself on a _grilled cheese sandwich_, of all things, nearly snorting when she turned to glare at him. His grin still hadn't fallen as he took a big bite of his own, dipping the corner in his tomato soup as he did so.

Delicious – Mama's recipe had yet to fail him.

"Thanks for the vote a confidence, punk, but y'all should prob'ly take smaller bites," he sniggered. "You'll make yerself sick."

Nodding again, shaggy hair flying all over the place, Danny let Spectra give him another much smaller bite. He munched happily on his grilled cheese, but both adults made sure that most of what he ate was the soup. He'd been starved so dadgum long his stomach probably couldn't handle an entirely solid diet. Small bites of grilled cheese, a little while of tomato soup. Eventually though, Danny clamped his mouth shut and huddled back into Spectra's chest, content to let the woman finish her own lunch.

"You never answered me," she eventually said, green eyes piercing through him over her bowl of soup. "And I want one because I don't trust people who speak in euphemisms."

Walker grunted around a mouthful of bacon and cheese. "I talk in euphemisms 'cause I can. 's how I was raised. Deal with it."

Spectra rolled her eyes at him. "That's a terrible answer, and you know it, Tex."

This time, he was ready for the terrible nickname. "Well, it's the only one yer gettin', _sugar_."

Now, he knew he wasn't exactly the quickest man on the draw when it came to snarky comebacks, so Walker took immense pride in the vicious scowl that played across Spectra's face at his response. Danny watched them from her lap with a quiet sort of awe, like he didn't quite believe that he was a part of everything. The expression held until the warden leaned over and carefully pulled him into his own lap.

"Alright, punk. What d'ya say we go outside for a bit today, hmm? We can sit on the porch and play with cars."

There hadn't been a lot of kids pass through his house, and definitely none as young as Danny, but Walker figured that it wouldn't hurt to take Taylor's example – use toys and games to help distract from how screwed up the child's little life had become. There were plenty of cars, rockets, and other toys up in his new room. Wouldn't hurt to try a few new things to get the kid a little bit more comfortable with everything around him.

Danny smiled up at him, nodding shyly, and Walker couldn't help but ruffle the mop on top of his head. Gently, though. Couldn't scare the poor guy, not when they were supposed to go out and have fun. He glanced up and caught Spectra staring at him, eyes narrowed. The cogs were whirring full-speed in that dang head of hers, he just knew it.

Which meant a whole lotta bull-hockey for him.

Grumbling to himself, Walker jerked his chin towards her half-finished meal. "Y'all gonna finish? Or are ya just gawk at me 'til supper?"

Spectra blinked. Then she snorted, rolling her eyes before returning to her sandwich. She polished it off, soaking up the last of the tomato soup, and stood for a proper stretch. Walker forced his mind to go blank when her top rode up around her belly-button.

"Alright, alright, I get the hint, Grandma Clampett," Spectra drawled. "Now, give me my kid so we can get ready to go outside."

Walker frowned, standing to face her with Danny tucked in the crook of his arm. He ignored the thin, ice-cold fingers toying with the collar of his tee-shirt. "Your kid? He's _my _kid, sugar."

The gleam in Spectra's eyes grew dangerous, and her chin jutted out in defiance as she glared up at him. "You might've found him first, but he's mine, Tex. Now, gimme!"

Danny giggled softly, thin frame shaking as he watched the pair of them bicker like a couple of old hens.

Walker grinned, an idea forming in the back of his mind, and tucked the little boy deeper into his chest. "Nope! My house, my brat. Go find yer own."

This time, Spectra's eyebrows nearly disappeared in her hairline, and she stepped closer. "You give me back my Danny!"

Walker's grin widened as Danny fell into an honest-to-Jesus giggling fit. "Ya wan' 'im? Yer gonna have ta catch us first!"

With that, he shot through the door, Danny shrieking with laughter as he bolted up the stairs. Behind him, Spectra let out a garbled noise that was most likely a choked-off curse. Walker could hear her follow them a second later. He took the stairs two at a time, skidding across the hardwood as he rounded the corner at the top. Danny was nearly breathless from giggling, a huge smile across his face as they made their way into his bedroom.

Spectra bounded through the door a second later. Her hair was all over the place, green eyes _furious_. But just as she opened her mouth – probably to cuss him out and call him all sorts of horrible things – Danny leaned forward and stretched his arms out to her. The kid was _grinning_, like he'd somehow forgotten he was supposed to be scared. It was like the sun peeking out from behind a thunderhead. Bright and shining and hopeful.

"Pen! Up!" Danny croaked, still giggling. "Up!"

Oh, if he had a camera, the look on the little witch's face would've made the _perfect _Christmas card. . .

Walker offered Danny to her, but he couldn't entirely wipe away his smug grin. "Well, go on then, sugar. I know when I've been beat."

Mute, Spectra carefully took the little boy and settled him on her hip. Danny giggled and laughed, reached out to hold her cheeks with his thin hands. Gently, he butted their foreheads together, and _no_, Jeremiah Walker did _not _have to choke back tears, thank ya kindly! Crying wasn't manly. . .

"Pen!" Danny cooed. "We play now?"

A stiff breeze probably could've knocked both of them for a loop right about then. But Spectra – always on her game, dangit – managed to find her voice before Walker thought it possible. She grinned back at him, brushing their noses together in an Eskimo kiss that made Danny's giggles start back up.

"Well, with an offer like that, how could I refuse?!" It was still quiet, probably more of a way to keep the mood light. "Alright, then, why don't you and I pick out some toys to play with? Then we can go outside. How's that sound?"

Danny nodded enthusiastically, another shriek of laughter emerging when Spectra leaned forward and blew a raspberry on his neck.

Walker didn't stop grinning the entire time they searched for toys, content to sit back and watch the pair chat. Spectra might've been a witch and a pain and every other word for annoying sociopaths that he could come up with, but to Danny? To Danny, she was everything he needed. She was quiet. And she listened. And she smiled at him like he was the most important person in the world, like there was nothing better than to listen to a four-year-old child choose between a red Hot-Wheels racer or a blue monster truck.

He'd never have pegged it, but the spunky red-head who made people miserable just because she _adored_ this kid, and Danny adored her right back. Walker couldn't help but thank God that she did. Even when she turned to him and stuck her tongue out, smugly flouncing from the room with the little punk giggling on her hip, leaving him to carry the toys out to the porch. Even when he realized that he'd have to clean the kitchen all on his own later. Even when he realized that she'd neglected to close the front door behind her.

Because even though he had to clean the kitchen on his own, close the door behind him, drop a massive bag of toy cars and planes and rockets onto the front porch, Walker realized that he could've never built a repertoire like this with Danny. He was rough around the edges. Feelings made his skin itch. Panic attacks usually sent him into a bit of a frenzy, even though he could handle the occasional one.

Jeremiah Walker tended to be a hard man, rough and tumble and entirely too callous for his own good.

Penelope Spectra, on the other hand, could be soft. Could be gentle. Could be quiet and calm and deal with panic attacks on a regular basis.

He sat on the porch decking with Danny, smiling as the little boy quietly offered to share toys with Spectra, and ran a hand through his hair. She took it. They played racing games without loud noises, occasionally lapsing into giggles when Spectra would lean over and run her fingers along his ribcage. Danny's clothes were still too baggy. His eyes were still gone, ectoplasm weeping from the sockets when he got too excited or scared.

But. . .

"Pen, no cheat! Stay on track, p'ease."

"Aww, but I'll never win if I do that!"

A serious look. "Cheaters don' win, Pen. Is naughty. No cheat."

"Alright, then, sweetheart. I promise I won't cheat."

Danny was scarred, kind of broken around the edges, and didn't like loud noises. Strangers frightened him. His nightmares would probably be enough to horrify the Fright Knight if they could be seen. He'd probably never really grow out of all his issues, and they had a long hard road ahead of them.

"Walk, play cars?"

But Danny could still smile. He could still play cars and laugh at them for arguing over whose kid he was. That meant there was hope.

Walker took the little white truck from Danny's thin hand, drawling out a thanks as he did so. The game was racing, the cars rushing each other around a made-up track that he and Spectra had made out of old blocks. He made quiet noises as they played together, smirking when Danny would let one of them win on purpose. Kid liked to play fair. Liked to follow the rules.

He could stand behind that. . .

**A/N: Okay, so this chapter is quite a bit shorter than the rest and there's an explanation for that. . . also it's late, but there's no explanation for that one so sorry.**

**With this chapter, I kind of wanted to settle back into the characters of Walker and Spectra, seeing as they'll (along with Danny and Jazz) be the main perspectives from here on out. Don't get me wrong, there will be a few obligatory different POV's scattered throughout the rest of the story, but I really want to hone the voices of the two main characters here and establish their relationship with Danny more firmly. **

**Also, I kind of wanted to end on a somewhat-fluffy positive note? Because I've got a bad habit of making people sob tears of sadness. Have some tears of cute instead, you bunch of pathetic weaklings lol.**

**That. . . and I have the worst case of writer's block in fucking HISTORY, so updates may be less frequent from here on out. But! I promise to do my best to satisfy your angst-fluff needs!**

**Without further ado, please leave me a comment in the magical box below, and I'll see y'all in the next chapter!**


	9. Chapter 9

Be Jazz Fenton.

Watch your world fall apart.

Piece by piece, slowly, and then all at once.

It is December 27th now, and you're very proud that you keep track with a calendar even though it's mostly because you're counting the days that Danny has been gone. Mommy and Daddy forgot all about Christmas this year. They forgot the presents and the tree, forgot to put on Christmas carols and make lots of food for their special dinner. They even forgot to argue about Santa Claus.

Dash is your new best friend and you do everything together. He sits with you at lunch and gives you his Honey Bun in the morning and he doesn't let Christian or Paulina ruin your pretty braids anymore. Everything is a mess, and some mornings you're ready to just go to sleep and never wake up, but Dash is _always _there. There with a smile or a hug or something nice to say. And it's Dash that you sit next to in class when Mr. Robbins gives you paper to make letters to Santa.

He asks you for help spelling lots because his letters get all jumbly like your numbers. Mr. Pendergrass lets you because he says it's "good to get along." Sometimes, you think Mr. Robbins looks at you funny, like he's sad. Sometimes, you get called into Nurse Hampton's office, and she gives you ice for bruises and asks lots of questions. When that happens, Dash is always the first one you talk to and the only one to give you a big hug.

When Dash shows you his letter, it makes your chest ache, because he asks Santa to make his Daddy be nice to his Mommy and sleep at home instead of at the firehouse. Dash also asks Santa to make letters not be so difficult and to make sure they would be friends for always, and when you read that, Dash panics because you start crying. No one has ever wanted to be your friend for always before.

You sometimes help Dash with his reading, too, and when he reads your letter to Santa, he looks at you with his blue serious eyes and says, "Does your Daddy hurt you?"

And you can't _lie _to him. That's wrong, and Dash is your _friend_, and he doesn't ever lie to you. He makes things better. Always. Gives you hugs and Honey Buns and his serious eyes only come out when the questions are really important.

So you tell him everything.

You tell him that there was an accident and there was a boy, white hair and green eyes, and he called himself Danny because he _was _Danny. Except Mommy and Daddy didn't believe you. And then Danny just wasn't _there _anymore, your baby brother who made everything bright, and now Mommy doesn't hug you anymore. Daddy doesn't kiss your forehead. There's lots of yelling, lots of fighting, brown juice in strange bottles that smell and holes in the walls. You tell him that you don't get new clothes anymore 'cause Mommy never comes out of the lab and Daddy is always so angry.

You didn't ask Santa for new clothes or new toys like other kids do. You didn't ask Santa for friends this year because you have Dash, and he's the best. You didn't ask Santa for new books or new shoes, didn't ask for ribbons or bows or teddies.

You asked Santa to bring Danny back. To make Daddy and Mommy not fight, to make them love you again, to make the house smell clean and make everything _better_. You ask Santa to fix what broke.

Dash looks at you very quietly for a long time when you finish, and then he gives you the biggest hug he can. It's nice even though it's too tight, makes your ribs ache where Daddy pushed you into a chair on accident, but you hold him back just as tight. He sounds like he's trying not to cry when he talks again, shaky as his fingers curl in your shirt. It's quiet. Mr. Pendergrass isn't paying attention – there's a couple of boys that are too rowdy – so he doesn't make them stop.

"It's gonna be okay," Dash whispers. "I'm gonna _make it _okay."

You don't like talking sometimes. It makes everything hurt.

But this time you choke back on tears that make your throat close and say, "How're you supposed to do that?"

Dash holds tighter. "I dunno. But I mean it."

Be Jazz Fenton.

Wish that things will get better.

And then realize that is a mistake.

Because then, suddenly, it's December 30th and policemen show up at the door with another man in a suit. Watch quietly from the stairs, peep through slats, and listen as they question Mommy. Her voice is loud, cracks at the edges, but the officers don't yell. It's strange. All the policemen on _Cops_ shout a lot. But this isn't a TV show.

If this was a TV show, the man in the suit would be very handsome; instead, he's got large, buck teeth and his voice is rough.

One of the police officers sees you. He has dark skin, a thick black mustache, and he's got very serious eyes like Dash sometimes has. But then he smiles at you, ignores how Daddy is snoring on the couch and how Mommy keeps trying to yell at him, pointing fingers and talking with that mean glint in her eyes, the one she gets when you do something wrong. The other police officer is a lady with blonde hair and makes Mommy stop yelling, makes her sit down and be calm and answer questions. The man in the suit has sad eyes, like he's very tired, and you feel a little bad for him when he tries to talk. Because Mommy doesn't let him talk because she's very _very _mad.

It makes your tummy do a back-flip.

Watch as the police man walks up to you. Try not to cry. Hold tight to Bearbert Einstein and bite your lip and try not to think about how there's ketchup stains on your Christmas sweater. How your tummy is grumbly and you have dirt smudged on your nose. Think very hard about what Mr. Pendergrass said to do if you talked to a police man. Be nice. Be polite. Tell the truth.

The police officer kneels down at the foot of the stairs and smiles at you, and his dark eyes kind of twinkle. They remind you of someone. But don't be impolite, don't let him see you're scared, don't do _anything_ to make Mommy any madder than she is. The police man takes off his hat, tilts his head a little bit.

"Hello there," he says, and his voice has a thick accent. It reminds you of cartoons, of Dora the Explorer and Manny Rivera. "I'm Officer Sanchez. Are you Jasmine?"

No one calls you Jasmine. Not even teachers. But this is a police officer, and he does not know you. Smile very quietly and say, "People call me Jazz."

Officer Sanchez seems like a nice man. He smells spicy, like cologne, and he's warm when he sits on the steps next to you. Feel your guts twist and then unwind. Because Mommy told you what to do and you don't want to mess this up. Because you're six-years-old and _scared_ because Mommy and Daddy took Danny and he hasn't been _back _and what could they do to _you_?

You wish that Dash was here to hold your hand.

"That's a very pretty name," Officer Sanchez says, smiling under his big mustache, and you think that it's a nice smile even though his eyes are sad. "Jazz, do you think we can go in the kitchen? Mr. Turner and Officer Star need to talk to your Mama and Papa about some important things."

Bite your lip. Squeeze Bearbert Einstein. Take a deep breath through your nose and _do not cry_ because Mommy is watching over the lady officer's shoulders and she looks so angry. There's gonna be lots of yelling tonight, you can tell. But. . .

You're so _hungry_ and he said _kitchen_, and police officers are supposed to make things better, right? They're the good guys, right? Maybe they can make Mommy and Daddy nice again, take away the nasty brown water and the yelling and the fists through walls. Maybe they can bring Danny back, too, and you can have your bubby back.

Be very careful when you nod and make eye-contact because Mommy says eye-contact is important. Watch as Officer Sanchez stands up and then go down the stairs. One, two, four. . . or is it three? Five, maybe? You don't know – the numbers jumble worse when you're nervous. Make sure that Officer Sanchez is following and don't look at Mommy as you walk towards the kitchen.

Try not to flinch when she starts yelling.

Be Jazz Fenton.

And sit in the kitchen with Officer Sanchez until it's very late, way past your bedtime, and try not to fall asleep in your bowl of Cheerios. It was all that you could find, 'cause Mommy's not very good at keeping food in the fridge anymore. You're so _tired_. But Mr. Turner and Officer David – that's what Officer Sanchez had called her – are still talking to Mommy. You think Daddy might have woken up, but you're not really sure. Answer all the questions that Officer Sanchez asks you.

Don't lie.

That's a very important rule – we do not lie in this house.

"Jazz, how old are you?"

"I'm six, sir. My birthday was in October."

"Did you have a nice party? I bet you have lots of friends."

"No, sir. Other kids don't like me. Except Dash and Danny. But Dash wasn't my friend yet and Danny. . . Danny's not here anymore."

Officer Sanchez kind of frowned when you said that and that makes you feel bad, like you've said the wrong thing, but then he smiles again. He pushes your Cheerios closer, very gently, and lets you keep eating.

"I have a daughter that's about your age," he says, very quietly. "Her name is Paulina. Do you know her?"

Swallow even though your throat gets tight and remember sticks, mud, mean words, slaps on the face, freak freak freak _freak_. Think about a little girl with pretty braids in her dark hair and nice new clothes, always pink, who likes to hit your books until they fall to the ground. A little girl who _hates_ you and you don't understand why?

"I know Paulina, sir. We don't talk a lot. I don't think she likes me."

It isn't a lie, but it isn't all the way the truth. Does that mean you've broken a rule? Gosh, you hope not. You're too tired for a punishment. Officer Sanchez kind of chuckles and ruffles your hair. Very gently, though. He's a big man but he's not rough like Daddy, even though his hands have big callouses and there's a scar on his pinky finger.

"I think my Paulina is a bit jealous," he whispers, like it's a big secret. "She talks about you a lot, about how you're the smartest in your class. I'm sorry if she isn't always the nicest. Her Mama spoils her terribly."

Wrinkle your nose. "Are you sure it's just her Mommy?"

Freeze.

Oh no.

Oh _no. _

You're not supposed to be sassy, it's against the rules, and that means that there's gonna be a punishment and Mommy's gonna get real mad and what if this makes Officer Sanchez mad too? He's a _police officer_. Can policemen take you to jail for being sassy?! What if he hates you what if he won't fix this what if what if what if?!

Officer Sanchez _laughs_, tips his head back and everything, and doesn't seem to notice how big your eyes are or how you're white or how your hands rattle the bowl. Instead, he looks back at you with a big grin. His teeth are very white.

"You've caught me, kiddo! I spoil Paulina just as much as her Mama does. We might need to work on that, eh?"

Don't say anything. Don't say anything _at all_. Because you got lucky that he wasn't mad, wasn't leaving or yelling or telling Mommy. Who has gone very quiet in the other room, almost like she isn't there? Didn't the door open a second ago?

You're very tired. It's obvious when you yawn and your jaw pops.

Officer Sanchez puts a hand on your shoulder. It's nice, not hard or heavy, even though his palm is very rough and his fingers have lots of scars. There's a bruise there. But there's always a bruise _somewhere_. So it doesn't really matter. Everything feels kind of floaty, fuzzy around the edges, and you can hear someone talking to you in the background, but it's like you're underwater. Sinking down, down, down until there's nothing but black. And it's kind of nice for a little bit.

Until. . .

_There's a little boy standing in front of you and it's black, too quiet, so quiet that it presses on your ears and they ache and you're scared, and this little boy looks just like Danny. But Danny doesn't have white hair (he does now) and this little boy doesn't have eyes, just big pits full of green goo that leaks down his cheeks and they're too skinny, like he hasn't eaten in a very long time. He stares at you. States and stares and stares and your heart's beating too fast. Thu-thump, thu-thump, thu-thump-thump-thump. You're scared. What's going on?! Where is everything?!_

_ The boy opens his mouth and more green spills out, over his chin and down his black-white jumpsuit, the one with a big Y-cut in the front and when he talks it's _Danny's voice_, small and he doesn't sound scared, but quiet and sad and confused. _

_ "Jazzy, why didn't you help me?"_

_ It hurts. It hurts it hurts it hurts please go away, not Danny, not my bubby, go away!_

_Take a step back and your ankle catches and you fall. Hit the ground even thought there isn't ground and it's cold, hard like concrete. And then the boy is sitting next to you. No eyes, mouth open, green dripping from his teeth and chin and. . . _

"_Jazzy, please help me. I'll be a good boy. I promise."_

_No. _

_No, Danny, that's not Danny, can't be Danny is it Danny?!_

_Open your mouth to talk except you can't, the words won't come, because there's sticky green and red oozing up your throat and you can't __**breathe**__. Make it stop make it stop please make it stop you want Mommy Daddy Dash Bubby anyone please make it go away you didn't mean it, honest, you'll find bubby you have to please!_

"_Jazzy, why didn't you help me?"_

_NO!_

Be Jazz Fenton.

Be six-years-old and wake up in a hospital on New Years Day. There's lots of tubes and needles sticking out of your arms, tubes with blowing air in your nose. Your clothes are gone. The hospital gown you're wearing is itchy. Take a deep breath and cough because the air tastes yucky, nasty like antiseptic, and this isn't right? Where did Officer Sanchez go? Why are you in a hospital? And then you're scared, very scared, because Mommy and Daddy won't be happy because you're not supposed to be _noticed_, Mommy said.

It's not right.

You shouldn't be here.

Everything is spinning and your head still feels fuzzy, cotton in your mouth, and you want to get out of bed but you don't want to fall? It doesn't matter anyway. A nurse walks in the room. She's kind of short and a little chubby and her shoes squeak on the too-white floor. But even though she looks surprised you're awake, she smiles, and it's a nice one. Warm and bright.

"Oh! Well, hello there, sweetie!" Her voice is quiet, but it's nice enough. "I'm Nurse Miranda. Do you know where you are?"

Shake your head. Stay quiet, though. Don't let her see how scared you are.

Watch her smile and know that it's twisted around the edges. "You're at Amity General, the hospital. Do you remember what happened before you woke up?"

Frown. Nod. But don't talk. Your throat still feels too scratchy for that.

"You don't have to talk right now if you don't want to, sweetie. That's alright. I'm going to take a few tests and write them down. Is that okay? I promise they won't hurt."

They won't hurt.

They won't hurt.

She promises they won't hurt.

Nod again. Watch closely as she puts a stethoscope on your elbow, listens, then writes. Take deep breaths when she tells you. Try not to flinch when the cold metal touches, when she stares at your bruises too hard, when she smiles and it doesn't reach her eyes. Try to smile a little bit when she pats the back of one hand and notice she has a gap between her front teeth.

"Alrighty, sweetie, all done. Now, there's a couple of people who are here to talk to you, is that okay?" Nod but don't talk. "Good. They'll be in here in just a second."

Watch her leave. Try not to cry and know it isn't working because your eyes burn.

Be Jazz Fenton.

Listen to Mr. Turner and Dr. Tang explain what happened. Listen as they tell you that you will be living with your Uncle Vlad for a little while, just until Mommy and Daddy get better. Just until they find Danny. Just for a little while. Listen as they talk to you about "abuse" and how Mommy yelling and Daddy pushing was wrong, how you were so tired that you fell asleep for two days and that wasn't okay. Listen as they explain that you won't have to change schools, that you'll get lots of food and clothes and toys and everything will be the same.

Except it won't be the same.

Because Danny will still be gone and all you have is a teddy bear.

When they leave, hold Bearbert tight and cry until you can't.

~*O*~

Vlad Masters.

Billionaire, businessman, inventor, genius.

Loner.

He wasn't precisely _happy_ about all the monikers he'd acquired over the years, particularly those that pertained to his status as a bachelor. However, Vlad understood the need for disguises in the world of the wealthy. More a veil of polite normalcy in a world that was nothing of the sort. He'd learned well in all that time spent in the hospital.

Not that there was much else to do when confined to a bed and crippled by chronic pain.

Still, Vlad Masters had grown accustomed to being alone to a degree. His mansion in Wisconsin was a primary residence, and he shared it only with the cleaning and kitchen staff throughout the week. Business associates were sequestered to Dalv Corp headquarters in nearby Madison, and though he rarely visited the mountain chalet, it had become a wonderful place of seclusion in his recently-acquired fame. Not to mention the many nights spent exploring deep corners of the Ghost Zone. He'd also built a modest manor – four bedrooms, three and half bath, nothing particularly grand – on the outskirts of Amity Park.

He imagined Maddie would want to remain at least close to the town where she'd settled and had her children.

Speaking of children. . .

"Mr. Turner, I really don't understand the situation. Are you telling me there is no one else able to care for Jasmine? You doubt the Fenton's competency as parents this strongly?"

The man sitting across from him looked older than his twenty-seven years, graying at the temples and stress creasing the corners of his eyes despite an otherwise neat appearance. His bucked teeth were somewhat prominent, and Vlad idly wondered if that endeared him to the children in some way. With a tense shake of his head, Mr. Turner took a swig of the black coffee he'd been offered by the secretary.

"No, Mr. Masters," he insisted, solemn and sincere. "We had received a report on the Fentons from Mr. Hawthorn, the principal at Jasmine's elementary school. A number of teachers had reported bruises, behavioral changes, disregard for hygiene – all classic warning signs for child neglect or abuse. Upon my arrival at their home, Jack Fenton was passed out on drunk on the couch and Madeleine Fenton had no idea where her daughter was. She was belligerent throughout our interaction, aggressive, and it wasn't until Jasmine passed out from hunger that we'd realized she hadn't fed the poor girl in almost two days."

Vlad felt his shoulders tighten. Surely not Maddie. Jack, he could understand. The oaf had been a lush in college, and he'd always suspected that a wicked hangover had been a damning contributor to his own accident. But Maddie? She was. . . she was strong-willed and possessed a fiery temper when provoked, sure, but he knew firsthand that his Madeleine loved her children more than anything. She was a brilliant mother. There had to have been some terrible mistake.

"Mr. Masters, I know this can be difficult to hear, especially when you were so close to the Fentons in your college years." Mr. Turner's voice was urgent, his blue eyes disgustingly earnest. "But right now? Jasmine _needs you_ to be there for her. The Fentons have you listed as her primary guardian in their will. And I'm personally reluctant to put Jasmine in the foster system."

Foster system?

Well, that simply wouldn't do. No child of Maddie's was going to suffer in a state home if he had anything to do with it.

Vlad placed his own mug of tea on its coaster, eyes narrowing as another thought occurred to him. "If I remember correctly, Mr. Turner, Jasmine has a younger brother – Daniel, I believe his name is. You haven't mentioned him once throughout this entire meeting."

A clenched jaw. Eyes flicked towards the ground. Fingers twisting on themselves. The younger man was upset. Anxious, nervous even. An interesting reaction, to be sure, especially when one considered that they were discussing a four-year-old boy and his six-year-old sister. Though he'd cut contact with the Fentons about a year prior to Jasmine's birth, he wasn't completely out of the loop.

"Daniel Fenton has been missing since September, Mr. Masters. A full investigation is being conducted, and I'm afraid I can't discuss the details. For now, you'll only be responsible for Jasmine, should you agree."

Something heavy settled in Vlad's chest at that. Anxious and cold, like a poison-coated stone. He swallowed, allowing his mask to rest over his face, and thought about the pros and cons of his next decision.

Pros: Maddie would consider him a savior, a hero, for taking her daughter in until this misunderstanding blew over. Taking in his goddaughter would be a wonderful boost to his political and business image. Jasmine was young enough that he could rather easily usurp the role of father-figure in her tiny eyes.

Cons: He would have full custody of a six-year-old child. Silence and easy-scheming would be a thing of the past. He'd need to take special precautions to keep his identity as Vlad Plasmius a secret from Jasmine. And finally. . .?

There was a distinct, terrifying possibility that he would actually grow attached to his little charge, only to have her stripped from him at the drop of a coin.

Vlad Masters did not consider himself a coward. Nor did he consider himself a particularly brave man. Taking leaps of faith such as this had never been his forte; however, sometimes, a situation required him to do exactly that. It was chess. Flaunt a pawn, lose a knight, or sacrifice a bishop – it didn't matter if one captured the queen. Maddie was the endgame, the final prize.

Perhaps her daughter would be his perfect ticket in.

"When would I be able to meet young Jasmine, Mr. Turner? I would imagine a young girl would wish to meet the person she is to be staying with before arriving in a strange place, yes?"

Mr. Turner blinked at him, as though he'd been expecting the opposite reaction. Vlad's responding smile was thin and wan. Having masks proved effective, yes, but sometimes the reaction they garnered were tedious at best and infuriating at worst. Still, to his credit, the social worker rallied quickly and began pulling various files and legal documents from a battered briefcase at his side.

"We just need to get this paperwork signed and notarized – temporary acceptance of guardianship, medical forms, other legal junk – and then we'll head to the hospital to see her. If that's alright with you, of course?"

Vlad almost wanted to like Mr. Turner. He was brisk, efficient, and he carried himself with purpose. That was something that he could respect, especially after having to claw his way to success. With a secret smile to himself, the billionaire took the proffered ink pen and began carefully sorting his way through the paperwork laid out in front of him, idly listening to the social worker explain each piece. This would be difficult, he realized. Having little to no real experience with children under the age of ten had him at a disadvantage. He'd be fighting an uphill battle, would have to strategize and plan carefully.

He signed his name on the first sheet with an elegant flourish and a true, wicked grin.

Chess had always been his favorite game to play.

~*O*~

"Danny, baby, I know you're excited, but you know better. Don't jump on the couch."

"Wanna see stars, Pen! Wanna f'y!"

"I know, sweetheart. We're waiting on Walker. You just need to be patient, okay?"

The tiny ghost, perched on a couch cushion, sighed quietly, flopping down with slumped shoulders. "Oh-_kay_. . ."

Three weeks.

It took exactly three weeks for Walker to grow used to having both Danny and Spectra in his house. Which, honestly, was a lot less time than he was expecting. It had taken him almost two months to get accustomed to having Taylor as a charge, and Ember had been a dadgum _nightmare _for the better part of a year. Still, Danny was a good kid. Skittish as all get-out, touch-starved, and near-silent for the most part, but good.

The first week or two had mostly been spent coming up with a routine and figuring out what his triggers were. Routines were easy, thankfully. Routines had rules – times, dates, settings, etc. And Walker excelled at those.

So it was wake up at seven, then breakfast at nine, followed by playtime or stories. Lunch at noon, nap time at one, then Spectra would have a make-shift therapy session around two-thirty or three. Between the end of that and supper at six was pretty much a free-for-all. Then it was baths at seven, a story (or four), and bedtime at nine.

Simple, clean-cut, easy.

The kid responded to the structure well – seemed to soothe his frayed nerves – and he'd opened-up some. Bit by bit and piece by piece. It was a smile here or a giggle there, allowing himself to take a bit of food without watching someone eat it first or playing with clothes before asking permission. He'd even put a little bit of weight on.

His triggers, though. . ..

Those were a bit harder to swallow.

Little things seemed to set Danny off. Loud noises and strange faces they'd noted, which was why forgoing the annual Truce party had been the best course of action. But sometimes the panics seemed to come out of nowhere. Laundry day, for example, had been uneventful until the timer went off, and Danny started shrieking in horror. It'd taken Spectra almost twenty minutes to figure out _what _he was so dang scared of. He wouldn't touch anything pink or white. Liquids, food, toys, it didn't matter. The little boy shunned anything in those two colors. Antiseptics were a no-go – found that out when he'd cut his hand working in the shop – because the smell reminded him of a laboratory. Honestly, it'd been a rough beginning. But there were certain things that made it all worthwhile.

Like now.

Walker chuckled and tossed his flannel shirt into the laundry, rolling his shoulders a bit as he shrugged into a heavier jacket. "Alright, punk, what d'ya say we go flyin'?"

Danny's head snapped towards him, a huge grin splitting his face, and he started bouncing excitedly on the couch again. They'd quickly figured out that blue and red were his favorite colors, and it was even more apparent when they let him pick out what clothes he wanted to wear. The outfit of the day consisted of the boy's favorite pair of overalls – blue corduroy – and a bright red shirt with bees on it. He still hated wearing shoes, though, but Walker wasn't bothered by that.

His furniture was probably better off for it, really.

Behind him, Spectra rolled her eyes in fond exasperation. "Danny. . ." Her tone stayed gentle, but the warning was clear. "No jumping on the furniture."

Before Danny could do much in the way of pouting, Walker scooped him off the couch, tucking him up against his chest.

"Don' go ignorin' her now, punk," he growled. "She's awful cranky on a good day. Make 'er any worse an' she'll turn into a dragon."

The expression Danny wore shifted to wonder, and he spun to look at Spectra. "You tu'n to a _dwagon_?!"

If the look that Spectra tossed him didn't scream "eat dog crap and die," Walker would have to eat his own shoe. He contented himself with grinning, bouncing the over-excited toddler against his chest until the witch could come up with something suitable. Which took a whole three seconds, dadgum it.

"No, baby, I don't turn into a dragon." A sly, almost cat-like smile crossed her lips, and for some reason that made his anxiety spike. "But that doesn't mean I don't bite on occasion."

Was that. . .?

Spectra flounced past him to the front door, practically sauntering away in her thick sweater and leggings. Walker felt his mouth go dry.

Holy crap, it _was_.

"Walk? We gonna f'y now?"

Danny's tiny voice, still painfully raspy and quiet, broke him from the shock. Looking down at his boy, the warden managed to smile. "Yeah, kid. Let's go – think y'all 'll be able ta go higher today?"

They'd been working on showing Danny the full extent of a ghost's powers, and it was already starting to affect his perception of them. Though Danny himself still hadn't manifested any abilities – shocking, considering he'd formed nearly a month ago – he'd quickly grown used to watching both him and Spectra use their ghost powers outside the house. Flying was a big hit, even though they had to be careful about not triggering his anxiety.

The smile returned in full-force, and Danny nodded with every ounce of enthusiasm his tiny body could muster. Walker couldn't help but chuckle a bit, helping coax the wriggling ball of energy into a heavier coat before carefully lifting him to ride on his shoulders. He had to do a bit of creative walk-crouching to get through the front door, and thin hands that gripped his head were freezing, but it was worth it to hear the punk laugh.

Spectra was waiting in the front yard impatiently, arms crossed with a mock-disapproving expression creasing her brow. Though there weren't true seasons in the Zone, it was decently cool, and Walker could see faint tremors run up her arms.

"Are you two almost ready?" she griped. "Because I'm cold and want to move to warm up."

Walker snorted. "Should'a wore a coat if you were cold, sugar. Danny here's all dressed for it."

Danny nodded, deathly serious. "You ge's a co'd, Pen. Coat is impo'tant."

He would _never_ be able to understand it, but somehow the woman who gave people depression for fun was absolutely smitten with a little boy who couldn't even stand the sound of a kitchen timer. Spectra's frown melted into nothing, and she floated over to tap his button nose with her pointer finger.

"You're absolutely right, precious. But I don't have a coat here, so I'll have to be tough like you, hmm?"

Danny's frown deepened, and he wriggled until Walker relinquished him (rolling his eyes all the while) to the red-headed shade. The ectoplasm pits in his head had solidified greatly over time, and they now resembled something closer to a true eye than before. So when the four-year-old focused his gaze on Spectra, the concern could be felt like a tangible thing.

"I keep you warm, Pen," he said quietly. "No be co'd, p'ease."

Walker felt a tug in his chest at that, and the grin that crossed Spectra's face did nothing but make it worse. She hugged Danny tight, bouncing into the sky so quick that it made him dissolve into shrieking laughter, and kissed his cheek. The little punk knew _exactly _how to make someone smile. It didn't matter if he'd just come out of a panic attack or a nightmare (of which there were many) or even if one of them was having a garbage day, Danny knew how to make it better. Somehow, this little boy – who had scars so deep they affected little things like _eating_ – had become good enough at reading the pair of them to accomplish it.

At four-years-old.

It just beat all he'd ever seen.

Walker shook his head, lazily floating up to join the odd pair, and half-heartedly glared at Spectra. "Yer downright _spoiled_, y'all know that? Could'a just asked me for a coat, but _no_, you gotta take my boy an' make him keep ya warm."

Smug as ever, she grinned over the top of Danny's head, pressing the giggling boy closer to her chest. "It's not being _spoiled_, Walker. I can't help it if Danny loves me best. He's got good taste. Unlike _someone_ I know. . ."

"Now that's just downright _rude_," Walker griped, crossing his arms as they began flying in circles. "Yer mama didn't wash yer mouth out enough as a kid."

Before Spectra could do much more than open her mouth, Danny piped up. "Pen, no be mean! I wuv you bo'f bestest."

They both froze.

Had he just. . .?

Danny looked up at Spectra with wide, scared eyes. "Did I say some'fin w'ong? I sowwy."

It looked like he was about to panic, thin body just barely trembling. But, thankfully, Spectra recovered quicker than he could. Walker floated in stunned silence as she hugged Danny hard, watching as the boy's thin arms squeezed back with all the strength they could muster. It looked like there were tears in the corners of her eyes, but that could've been a trick of the light. The galaxy of ectoplasmic stars overhead shone brighter tonight.

"No, baby!" She giggled, smile so wide it threatened to split her cheeks. "You didn't say anything wrong at all! You just surprised us, that's all."

Danny looked confused. "How come, Pen?"

Something like heartbreak flashed over Spectra's face, and Walker moved to float beside her. "We just didn' know y'all loved us best, bud. It's a big piece a news."

The little boy glanced up at the stars – well, what passed for stars in the Zone, anyway – and then looked back at them. He'd come so far in such a short amount of time, but Walker still couldn't get over the scars that lined his face and peeked out from under his shirt. Danny had been shattered, almost irreparably, by the people who were supposed to love him most. And he'd somehow found the courage to love them anyway.

"I do," Danny murmured, serious as a sermon. "I wuv you an' Pen bof bestest. 's why I twy an' be good. 'cause you good an' I don' wanna make you hate me like I did Mommy an' Daddy."

It was the most they'd managed to pull out of Danny concerning why he thought he was such a bad boy, why he was so afraid to mess up or do _anything_ against what they recommended for him. Walker felt his core freeze in his chest once the words connected. Holy crap, is that what he thought?! That everything that happened was his fault?! That he'd somehow made his parents hate him and that he could do the same to other people?!

If he ever found the punk's parents. . . .

For once, it seemed like Spectra had been muted. She just stared at Danny, arms trembling and eyes glassy with horror. Her throat worked. But nothing came out, just a strangled whimpering noise that made Danny hug her tighter. Walker understood what she was feeling. It was like a punch in the chest, having to listen to this little boy tell you that he was terrified of making the people he loved most hate him. That he _loved them_ and was still afraid regardless.

"Danny, kiddo, I need y'all to listen to me, okay?" Walker floated until his shoulder brushed Spectra's, one hand resting on the top of the kid's head. "There ain't _nothin' _you could do to make either one of us hate you. _Ever_. We love ya to the stars an' back, bud, an' nothin' in this world or the next is gonna make us stop. Got that?"

Eyes widening, Danny looked up at him like he'd pulled down the moon and put it in his pocket. "Y-you mean it?! Pwomise?"

This time, Spectra answered him. "We promise, baby. Cross my heart."

Gnawing at his lip, Danny reached up with both hands and patted her on the cheeks. "Pinky pwomise?"

Her smile was awfully watery, but she offered him a pinky nonetheless. "Pinky promise."

Danny sealed the pact solemnly before turning to look at him with big, serious non-eyes. "Walk? Pinky pwomise?"

Walker didn't _like_ making promises unless he could keep them. But this one he would keep without question. He offered the little boy his own pinky, a crooked grin spreading as they hooked together.

"Pinky promise."

Usually, Danny didn't like making big, sudden moves. Like he was scared of going too fast, scared of someone lashing out at the slightest provocation. Which was perfectly understandable given how he'd died. But neither one of them seemed ready to be near-squeezed to death by an excited four-year-old. Walker suddenly found his head pressed right up against both Danny and Spectra, the smell of strawberries and cream washing over him.

"I wuv you," Danny choked out, body trembling with the force of his newfound courage. "I wuv you lots."

Spectra was shaking right along with him, and Walker heard tears in her voice when she answered. "We love you, too, big man. So, so much."

Jeremiah Walker didn't do emotions. He wasn't particular to hugs, kisses left him decidedly uncomfortable, and thinking about anything that didn't deal with anger or frustration left him grasping at straws.

His kids, it seemed – particularly this one – were an exception.

Without thinking twice about it, he put both arms around Danny and Spectra, pulling them hard against him. Danny giggled near-hysterically. Spectra buried her face in the little punk's hair, even as one hand reached up and grasped the back of Walker's jacket. They were shaking. But something told him it was the good kind of shakes. The kind you got after a good cry or a tense situation resolved.

"Love you, brat," Walker rasped. "Don't forget it."

Danny nodded. "I won'. Wuv you."

They stayed like that for a long time, floating above the property with nothing but the stars overhead to keep them company. Eventually, though, Danny's tiny voice broke the moment, little hands twisting gently in the fabric of their shirts.

"Walk? Pen? I go's a question."

Beside him, Spectra cleared her throat and managed to answer. "And what sort of question do you have, baby?"

Danny glanced up, worrying his lip between his teeth in a sort of nervous tic. Walker clucked his tongue softly and pulled it out from between the little teeth. "Come on, big guy, none of that. Y'll hurt yerself again."

Without his teeth to trap them, it seemed the boy's lips had a mind of their own, and he blurted, "Does dis mean you an' Pen won' ta'e me back ta Mommy an' Daddy? I don' has ta go back, right? 'cause I don' wanna."

Both Walker and Spectra had the same idea.

"Punk, y'all ain't goin' anywhere!"

"Hell no, you're not going back there!"

Danny blinked at them in shock, silent and startled by their combined outburst. Then he looked Spectra dead in the eye and said, "Dat's a quarter in da swear jar, Pen."

Walker couldn't help it.

He nearly fell out of the sky because he was laughing too hard to stay airborne. Spectra didn't seem to think it was as funny as he did, though, cheeks burning as she bounced the little boy back onto her hip. Danny himself kept giggling, albeit a bit nervously, and the giggles became full-blown shrieks when Walker darted back up and snatched him.

"Tell 'er, punk! Swearin's against the rules, ain't it?!"

The four-year-old nodded, still giggling. "Uh-huh!"

Spectra gaped at him in outrage. "Quit poisoning him, Walker, I'll swear if I want!"

"No, Pen! No swear, p'ease!"

The glare that Walker received probably should've killed him. Or at least cowed him. But this was just too dang funny to pass up. He kept chuckling even as Spectra elbowed him in the ribs – which _hurt_, dangit, her elbows were sharp – and shot past him towards the house.

"I hate you, Tex."

"No ya don't, sugar. Otherwise, we wouldn' be here talkin'."

"Shut up."

"Does 'is mean I won?"

"Not by a longshot, Grandma Clampett. Not by a freakin' _longshot_."

The last growl echoed through his lair bounds, and Walker almost felt a little intimidated. But that didn't keep him from grinning smugly as he and Danny touched back down, the kiddo perched on his shoulders. Little hands with freezing fingers gripped his ears, and he could feel a little core thrumming gently against the back of his head. It felt right.

"Walk, don' be mean! You make Pen mad. An' dats no good."

"Punk, y'all might just have a point."

Walker plucked Danny off his shoulders and strode back into the house, finding Spectra curled up on the couch with a pout. Immediately, the kid stretched towards her, wriggling until he was tucked back into her chest and under a blanket. His eyes drooped, a content smile on his thin face as fingers trailed through his hair, and Walker sat himself next to them.

"Wuv you, Pen. Wuv you, Walk."

Spectra kissed his forehead and snuggled down into the couch. "We love you, too, baby. Don't forget that, okay?"

Yeah. . .

This felt right.

**A/N: **

**So holy fuck, I'm alive? I swear to God, I do not keep meaning to take so long on these chapters but they just don't. . .? I dunno how to describe it, but something here wasn't clicking and it pissed me the fuck off. But here I am! With lots of angst and a little fluff! Vlad showed up, as many of you guys have clamored for, and he's such an asshole. I love him. Still, things might get worse before they get better where Jazz is concerned, and as far as Danny goes, he's made leaps and bounds but we're still a LONG way from being a normal four-year-old boy. **

**That being said, the last bit of fluff made my heart happy. Along with double entendres because we all know Spectra's a perv. And Walker's just this side of being a fucking nun. I'm having a ball with these two. Honestly, why aren't there more fanfics of this pairing? I've seen, like, one? Y'all need to rectify this situation. Or me. I might have to rectify this situation. **

**Once I get my shit together. **

**Anyway! I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter, and i would love it if you could leave me a comment down below!**

**Deuces!**


	10. Chapter 10

sometimes, when he plays, danny thinks too much.

danny has been with mr. walker and ms. penny for a long time now. lots of days, all strung together in a row. he thinks that they missed christmas, but that's okay, because he doesn't really like christmas all that much anyway. he has his own bed, his own toys, clothes and shoes and he gets _food_ every day, three times a day, and it's wonderful. grilled cheese is his favorite. or maybe pancakes? mac n' cheese? it's amazing and wonderful, all the things a good little boy gets, so he isn't quite sure why they do all this for him. but it's so much better than beat you break you skaal-pulls hurt hurt hungry why, mommy, what did I do wrong? before so he doesn't ask questions.

even though mr. walker says he can and ms. penny asks lots of them, danny doesn't like asking a whole lot of questions because sometimes they hurt. they hurt a lot.

that's okay.

because he gets to wake up with his rocket pjs on and eat breakfast on ms. penny's lap and no one ever yells at him if he wants a second piece of toast with his bacon. he gets to play games, listens to as many stories as he can because ms. penny and mr. walker do _voices_, much better than mommy or daddy did, and sometimes he gets to sit on the couch and snuggle under blankets. lots of times it's just him and ms. penny, and she asks lots of questions about before, but she never gets mad when his head hurts, when he gets sad and cries. she just gives him lots of hugs and kisses and tells him he's a good boy. that he's safe and no one was going to hurt him.

sometimes danny believes her.

sometimes danny cries until he can't and sleeps.

and then sometimes mr. walker comes in and they go outside, watch the stars, and it's nice. because mr. walker is big and his voice is kind of scary, but he's always very gentle. he lets danny ride on his shoulders or hide in his coat, and sometimes they just sit and are quiet. they don't always talk. and that's nice, because talking is kind of scary still.

like that time they were doing laundry and the house smelled nice, like soap and warm clothes, and then there was a beep and –

beep beep beep goes the timer and then his arms are burning and his tummy aches and, mommy, why won't you just listen? it's me, it's danny, please I'm right here don't leave me don't hurt no mommy stop it hurts stop yelling and I'll tell you stop stop stop it hurts please it hurts it hurts it hurts and the timer keeps screaming and danny can't feel anything anymore and

danny thinks he scares ms. penny sometimes. because he answers her questions and she goes very quiet, just stares at him with wide eyes, and it makes his tummy feel yucky because he doesn't want ms. penny to ever be sad or to be upset with him. when that happens he climbs in her lap and squeezes her as tight as he can, even though his arms are still too-skinny and scary and don't want to work like they used to. and then she pulls him in even tighter and it's _warm_ and she always kisses him on top of the head like jazzy used to. it's nice.

he likes it here. he doesn't ever want to leave. because danny loves ms. penny with her soft hair and big hugs and story voices. and he loves mr. walker with his deep voice and the funny way his words tilt and his big hands. he loves story time and eating breakfast, playing cars and snuggling on the couch, likes listening to ms. penny and mr. walker argue, likes to watch them pretend not to like each other. he loves getting to go _flying_, soaring through the air and looking at the stars and knowing that they keep him safe.

but. . .

what if they think he's not good enough and what if they think he's not smart enough and what if he answers a question _wrong _and what if they realize he's not a good boy, that he doesn't deserve this, and they _stop loving him_? stop the kisses and the play-fights and story time and cuddles and food and, _no_, he doesn't want to go back. never ever not never.

danny stops. he breathes. ms. penny tells him that when he gets scared or upset or lonely that he should take a second and breathe because that will tell his brain to slow down, please. and it works most of the time. so he takes a breath. in through his nose and the ache in his chest gets sharp. hold it. let the ache build. then out again.

again. in, hold, then out.

danny wraps his favorite blankie around his fingers and watches as mr. walker walks towards the laundry room. he's changing shirts? fly-time! that's his favorite and it makes his heart do a happy-flip and he _knows_ it's not really allowed but he bounces up and down on the couch. ms. penny is in her favorite sweater today, the soft green one with the big neck that he can fit under and stick his head through. she made sure that he got to wear his favorite overalls. they're his favorite because they're soft and his most favoritest color, blue, and his bee shirt smells like nice, like rain.

they're going _flying_!

"Danny, baby, I know you're excited, but you know better. Don't jump on the couch."

but! but! _wanna see stars, pen! wanna fly!_

ms. penny makes air rush through her nose at him, something mr. walker calls a "sigh" but she's smiling so danny isn't scared. "I know, sweetheart. We're waiting on Walker. You just need to be patient, okay?"

danny doesn't like being patient but ms. penny asks nicely, so he drops. his shoulders droop. _oh -kay. . . _

he likes making "o" sounds big and long, just so she knows that he's a little bored, but ms. penny smiles at him and fluffs his hair. she does that a lot. he doesn't mind, likes it because it's nice and safe and it means she loves him, right? that there's no hurt-cut-skaal-pull right?

behind him, mr. walker laughs.

"Alright, punk, what d'ya say we go flyin'?"

_flying flying flying!_ danny twists and he can't stop smiling even though it makes his face ache and his eyes hurt, and he just can't help but bounce a little bit more. flying is his favorite, even though he's not sure how people can do it, but that's the way things are here. he thinks that mr. walker and ms. penny are superheroes. they've just gotta be. they might say they're ghosts and all ghosts do this, but danny knows better, knows deep in his tummy that they're both superheroes. like batman or wonder woman.

that's how come they saved him.

ms. penny makes her air-noise again and he can see her roll her eyes, but she does that a lot. sometimes he thinks her eyes are broken 'cause she'll smile at mr. walker right after she does it even though she's pretending to be mad, but he doesn't think mr. walker notices. grown-ups are weird.

"Danny. . ." uh-oh that's the warning voice. "No jumping on the furniture."

he _knows _he's not supposed to, ms. penny, but it's _flying_! danny thinks these rules are much easier than the before-rules no talking tell us where our son is stop lying tell us the truth or we'll break you hurt you smash you and yelling yelling yelling but sometimes it's hard to remember them. ms. penny always tells him that mistakes are okay, and so does mr. walker, but danny doesn't like making mistakes because what _if_?

then there are big hands on his ribs and they're rough, like old leather, and danny giggles when mr. walker picks him up. it's nice, being up so high, 'cause he knows that mr. walker is strong and tough and nothing can hurt him when he's up here. most of the time, danny sits in the bend of his elbow because that's easiest, but sometimes he gets to ride on his _shoulders_ and those are the funest.

"Don' go ignorin' her now, punk. She's awful cranky on a good day. Make 'er any worse an' she'll turn into a dragon."

_dragons?!_ ms. penny is pretty and sometimes when she gets mad at mr. walker her eyes turn red, but danny doesn't think she actually turns into a dragon? if she does that's the coolest thing _ever_, even if it sounds very scary, so he's just gotta ask, so he turns and looks at her and says _you turn into a dragon?!_

and even though ms. penny looks angry at mr. walker, she smiles at him. makes him feel very special.

"No, baby, I don't turn into a dragon. But that doesn't mean I don't biteon occasion."

she looks at mr. walker when she says the last part, and he goes very stiff, even when ms. penny walks past them and out the front door. danny doesn't understand. but grown-ups are weird, so he doesn't try to. he just wants to go flying, but he's kind of scared to ask? he still doesn't like asking for things because what if they get tired of him asking and everything just goes away? that's what happened before and he still doesn't know how to be a good boy all the time, but he can still try right?

so danny bites the inside of his cheeks for a second and tries to be brave, asks, _walk? we gonna fly now?_

it's scary to ask for things, but danny's learning that it's not so bad, because mr. walker smiles at him. crooked at the edges and a little rusty. but special 'cause it's just for him.

"Yeah, kid. Let's go – think y'all 'll be able ta go higher today?"

danny doesn't always like going high because it makes his tummy swoop and drop and the aches come back, green-sticky leaking from his eyes, and then he can't breathe can't breathe can't breathe but flying means he can be an _astronaut_ or a superhero. he can go high in the sky and watch the stars and even though sometimes it's scary, he thinks he can reach out and touch them. it makes danny think he isn't always gonna be scared. that he be a good boy.

so he grins even though it pulls and nods until it makes his head go spinny. mr. walker laughs a little and that makes him feel good, 'cause mr. walker doesn't laugh a whole lot. but he laughs for danny. he also laughs for ms. penny, but he doesn't let her know that, and danny thinks that he's never gonna understand grown-ups. jazzy would probably know what was going on. but he doesn't. so that's fine for now.

danny tries not to wriggle too much when mr. walker puts on his coat, which he needs because it's always cold even when he's not outside. and then he gets a shoulder ride, giggles popping in his tummy like bubbles when mr. walker does his funny crouch-walk to get through the door. he likes being able to see things even though he would rather have someone hug him. sometimes, danny thinks, you have to trade one thing to get another. he told that to ms. penny once and she'd smiled at him and said it was a bit like sharing.

he wishes sharing didn't make his tummy ache.

outside is cold, but it's nicer with his jacket on even though it's cold in the center of his chest, like his heart has a brain-freeze, and danny holds a bit tighter to mr. walker's head. ms. penny is standing in the yard and she's got her arms crossed. she's got a funny look on her face, kinda like the one mommy would get when daddy wouldn't eat his pancakes fast enough in the mornings, and danny thinks she looks a little cold. she's not wearing a coat, just her sweater. how come she doesn't wear a coat?

"Are you two almost ready? Because I'm cold and want to move to warm up."

danny thinks ms. penny is very smart but sometimes she does things that make him confused. like when she tells him to eat his veggies – broccoli is the _worst_ – but won't eat her green-beans. or when she lets him have the blanket even though her feet are cold. mr. walker makes a funny snorting laugh.

"Should'a wore a coat if you were cold, sugar. Danny here's all dressed for it."

he is and mr. walker's right, so danny nods again because _you gets a cold, pen. a coat is important_.

at least, he tries to say that, but sometimes his words don't come out quite right, like there's a funny jump between his brain and his mouth. ms. penny doesn't seem to mind though. she smiles her special smile and floats up to him – which is so _cool_ and he wishes he could do that! – to tap his nose with her pointer finger. it's tickly and silly and just for him, and it would make him very happy if she wasn't still shaking.

"You're absolutely right, precious. But I don't have a coat here, so I'll have to be tough like you, hmm?"

danny frowns. no coat? ms. penny should have a coat. they're important, and if _he _can have a coat even though he's a bad little boy, then heroes like her should have coats too. it's not fair. so danny wriggles against mr. walker until he's allowed to get down. which doesn't take very long, big hands around his ribs, and then ms. penny is letting him huddle up against her. and she _is _cold, he can feel her shivering. that's not good at all. because superheroes should be warm, should be taken care of and ms. penny is the _best_, so he doesn't understand why she'd do this?

so he pats her cheeks very gently and says, _i keep you warm, pen. don't be cold please._

except the words don't quite come out right and it makes him kinda mad, but he doesn't want to make ms. penny sad, 'cause sometimes when he gets frus-ter-rated it makes him cry and ms. penny looks like she wants to cry too. he's trying to be a good boy, honest, but it's very hard.

being four-years-old is hard.

but this time ms. penny smiles at him and it makes her eyes dance like starshine. danny giggles when she bounces up, up, up into the sky, so high he can reach up and touch the stars even though they still seem very far away. and he doesn't really like going fast all that much, but it makes him laugh anyway, that swoopy, sinking feeling in his tummy and ms. penny kisses his cheeks when he giggles, hugs him tight and it makes him feel so _happy_. he doesn't want this to ever go away. he'll be the best boy ever if he can just stay here, where there's no yelling and no hurt and nothing but lots of hugs and kisses and food.

ms. penny squeezes him one more time before mr. walker flies to them. his arms are crossed, and he's got a look on his face like he's trying to pretend he's upset but is half-smiling instead. danny wraps his arms around ms. penny's neck lets his cheek set against hers.

"Yer downright _spoiled_, y'all know that? Could'a just asked me for a coat, but _no_, you gotta take my boy an' make him keep ya warm."

sometimes it's hard to tell what mr. walker is saying 'cause his voice is so funny, but this time danny understands. and he frowns because, yes, he's mr. walker's boy but he's also ms. penny's boy? isn't he _their_ boy? can he not be both? it's very confusing, but ms. penny doesn't seem very upset. she's laughing and kisses the top of his head again.

"It's not being _spoiled_, Walker. I can't help it if Danny loves me best. He's got good taste. Unlike _someone_ I know. . ."

. . . loves her best? does he love her best? danny knows he loves both of them, but he doesn't think he loves either one best. what if she hurts mr. walker's feelings?! that's no good. it always made him very sad when someone hurt jazzy's feelings, and he doesn't want anyone else to get sad like jazzy used to. not now, not never. and mr. walker's face scrunches up, his arms crossing tighter, and he gives ms. penny a very dirty look.

"Now that's just downright _rude_. Yer mama didn't wash yer mouth out enough as a kid."

danny remembers mouth-washing. it's gross and yucky and no, mommy, i'm not lying not lying please don't hurt me mommy, no it tastes bad can't breathe too many bubbles can't see or breathe and no mommy i'm so sorry! it makes his tummy ache thinking about the taste. ms. penny has a funny look in her eyes, like the kind she gets when she and mr. walker are about to argue, and danny doesn't like that. he doesn't like the arguing 'cause that means yelling screaming breaking glass cuts hurt hurt hurt please don't people aren't happy and getting along. everyone should get along. and ms. penny just isn't _right _this time, really she isn't, so he has to stop her before she says something mean. and so he opens his mouth and, _pen, don't be mean! i love you both bestest!_ comes tumbling out, scratching at his throat with sharp nails.

it goes still.

they stare at him, ms. penny and mr. walker, with big eyes and open mouths and danny feels his chest start to ache, tingling all the way down the big letter-scar that sits there. and oh NO_ did i say somethin' wrong? 'm sorry!_

he wants to crawl in a hole and hide and the thick-sticky is crawling up his throat, squeezing until the air whooshes out of his lungs and he doesn't want to go back, he's sorry he said the wrong thing. his body is starting to shake again, bones freezing under his skin and he's so _cold_, why can't he just be a good boy? just once? he wants to be good, wants to stay and never ever leave and. . .

then ms. penny hugs him hard and she smells like raspberries and danny squeezes back as hard as he can. he's still not very strong, his arms and his hands and his everything too skinny, but it makes the sick-sticky feeling go away. she doesn't hate him. _she doesn't hate him_. and then she laughs, smiles so hard it looks like it hurts and danny feels his heart do a happy dance.

"No, baby! You didn't say anything wrong at all! You just surprised us, that's all."

surprised them? _how come, pen?_

and then she gets that super sad look on her face, the one that she gets when she asks a hard question about the before-time, when there was skaal-pulls and yelling and lots of hurt, and it makes danny want to crawl in a hole and never come out. but mr. walker is there all of a sudden, and he's smiling a little bit, so he can't have been all bad, right? can't have ruined everything, right?

"We just didn' know y'all loved us best, bud. It's a big piece a news."

they. . .

they didn't _know_?

danny looks up at the stars and wonders why they look so far away, if they grant wishes and he hopes hopes hopes with everything in him that he can say this and not ruin everything. but ms. penny is still hugging him and mr. walker has his serious grown-up eyes so maybe he can be brave and do this. he can tell them. they won't hurt them 'cause they're superheroes and they _promised_.

so danny opens his mouth again and the words come scratching out, saying, _i do. i love you and pen both bestest. it's why i try and be good. 'cause i don't want to make you hate me like i did mommy and daddy. _

and everything just kind of clicks together like puzzle pieces and danny's tummy aches, 'cause ms. penny is looking at him and she's _crying_. he's made her _cry_. and mr. walker doesn't say anything, just looks super sad-mad. oh no oh no oh no oh no he didn't mean it, please don't be sad he doesn't _mean it_ and he wants to take the words and swallow them and let them sit in his tummy like the bad medicine mommy used to give him but that's not how words work and so he just hugs ms. penny tighter. she's making a weird noise. it sounds kinda like that time daddy accidentally kicked the neighbor's cat, sadie, and she'd stumbled around wheeze-hissing for a long time.

then mr. walker looks at him and he's got his serious face on and danny listens to the way his voice tilts and falls and makes words even though something keeps whooshing in his ears.

"Danny, kiddo, I need y'all to listen to me, okay?" mr. walker floats closer, close enough to touch and a big hand rests on top of his head. "There ain't _nothin' _you could do to make either one of us hate you. _Ever_. We love ya to the stars an' back, bud, an' nothin' in this world or the next is gonna make us stop. Got that?"

they. . .

they _love him_?! they _want __**him**_?!

danny feels his eyes get very wide and looks at mr. walker and the whooshing in his ears is a roar, his chest very tight 'cause he wants it to be true, wants it bad, but there's a mean voice in his head that says liar liar nasty little ghost they can't love you they hate you break you send you back to the before and it's what you deserve you little freak none of this is true.

but danny says _you mean it?! promise?!_

promises hurt but this is a promise he needs because maybe, just maybe, this one won't? it's ms. penny that talks this time.

"We promise, baby. Cross my heart."

cross my heart and hope to die, stick a needle in your eye. . .

cutting ripping tearing so much pain it hurts mommy it hurts please and then he can't see it's not black it's not white he just can't see and he doesn't understand why everything hurts so much but he remembers a needle bright and shiny and scary and it went in his eye and oh, no, mommy where am I please stop I'll be a good boy I'll be good I promise! I pinky promise!

danny chews on his lips until his teeth taste funny and pats ms. penny's cheeks with his hands. they're cold and too-red but she's smiling anyways when he says _pinky promise?_

she laughs and holds up a pinky and says, "Pinky promise."

the happy in danny's chest does a flip-flop happy dance and he turns and looks at mr. walker, who doesn't like making promises – he can tell, 'cause he doesn't unless he has to – and says, _walk? pinky promise?_

but then mr. walker smiles at him, that crooked one that turns up funny at the corners, like it's rusty, and holds out his pinky.

"Pinky promise."

and danny just. . .

danny _can't_. . .

he reaches out and he hugs them as tight as he can because _they love him_ and he's such a bad little boy, doesn't deserve any of this, but they love him _anyways_ and it makes him want to snuggle close and hug them and hold tight until the stars come falling down. but he doesn't know how to make that into words just yet so he just says _i_ _love you_. _i love you lots_.

'cause he does. he loves them and he's gonna be a good boy. he's gonna try and he's gonna do it. ms. penny kind of laughs but it sounds wet, and he thinks she's crying again. he can feel her shaking even though he feels safe tucked against her and mr. walker both.

"We love you, too, big man. So, so much."

and then mr. walker hugs them _both_. it's almost too tight and danny can't stop laughing, even though ms. penny is crying into his hair and he can't stop shaking either, but that might just be 'cause he's cold. he's always cold. and they sit like that for a long time, floating in the air like superman and the stars are so pretty. so bright. he thinks his wish might've come true.

"Love you, brat. Don't forget it."

mr. walker's voice is quiet like always, but it's always rough and deep and serious. but danny nods and says, _i won't. love you_.

but. . .

he can't stop thinking. . .

_walk? pen? i gotta question_.

one last squeeze, and mr. walker lets go, ms. penny sniffing a little bit. she answers him, though, another smile back on her face.

"And what sort of question do you have, baby?"

does he want to ask? they love him, does he have to ask? he bites his lip and chews away until mr. walker clucks his tongue and pulls it out. "Come on, big guy, none of that. Y'll hurt yerself again."

oh, yeah. he forgets not to chew sometimes 'cause he gets really rough and once he chewed a hole right through his lip. ms. penny had gotten real scared and she slept with him in his bed that night because she was scared he might hurt himself again on accident. but the question is gnawing at his insides, rumbling in his head and sometimes danny doesn't really think about things before he says them so he just blurts _does this mean you and pen won't take me back to mommy and daddy? i don't have to go back, right? 'cause I don't wanna_.

he _doesn't want to go back_.

they both answer him at the same time and it's _loud_ but not the sort of loud that makes his tummy knot up and his chest freeze and the air burn in his lungs.

mr. walker barks. "Punk, y'all ain't goin' anywhere!"

and at the same time, ms. penny yells. "Hell no, you're not going back there!"

and danny still thinks that grown-ups are strange 'cause the only thing he can think to do past being so so happy he doesn't have to go back is look at ms. penny and say_ that's a quarter in the swear jar, pen_.

it makes mr. walker laugh so hard he nearly falls out of the sky and ms. penny turns a funny shade of red. danny doesn't know if he wants to laugh or curl up in a ball, confused, so he giggles until mr. walker shoots back up and takes him, tosses him into the air and back onto his big shoulders. then the giggles are real and danny tries to forget what words are when the adults talk, only saying _uh-huh_ when mr. walker talks to him.

he holds onto mr. walker's ears and looks at the stars instead. they sparkle and swirl and they're different than the sky back home but it's pretty, green and black and purple and lots of different colors all going on and on and on until danny can't see where they end. it's nice out here. he loves this place and he loves mr. walker and he loves ms. penny.

he wishes jazzy could be here, too.

"Quit poisoning him, Walker, I'll swear if I want!"

that's against the rules so danny has to say _no, pen! no swearing please!_

and mr. walker is laughing again, ms. penny glaring, and they argue some more like they don't like each other even though danny clearly thinks they're bestest friends. kinda like batman and wonder woman. or superman and lois lane! except ms. penny has red hair and mr. walker could probably make superman cry. oh well – being four is hard so he thinks that being a grown-up must be hard too, so he'll let them be weird. it's okay.

but he has to say _walk, don't be mean! you'll make pen mad. and that's no good._

mr. walker laughs again and pats him on the leg as they fly down, down, down towards the house 'cause ms. penny has already gone inside. "Punk, y'all might just have a point."

they go inside and danny laughs as mr. walker crouch-walks through the door some more even though they could just go in-tan. . . in-tan. . . the word is long and hard but it means they don't have to open a door, can just walk through it instead.

ms. penny is sitting on the couch and it's warm and danny's tired, wants to take his nap before supper, so he wiggles until mr. walker puts him down. he likes naps when they get to snuggle. because this means he's warm and he's safe, and lots of times she hums under his ear until he goes to sleep and it helps keep the nightmares away. he's sleepy, wrapped up in his favorite blankie and ms. penny runs her fingers through his hair. which is really nice. he thinks mr. walker sits on the couch next to them but he's not sure.

_love you, pen. love you, walk_.

there's a kiss on his forehead and ms. penny says, "We love you, too, baby. Don't forget that, okay?"

danny won't forget.

how could anyone love you freak ghost bad-boy mistake bad bad bad

he means it.

~*O*~

Penelope brushed her fingers across Danny's little cheek, unable to stop the smile that spread when he leaned into the touch unconsciously. It'd taken all of two days for him to get under her skin. And it'd taken less than a full month for her to do something she'd swore never to do – fall completely, irrevocably, head-over-heels for a kid that wasn't even hers.

Well, not biologically, anyway.

Danny sighed in his sleep, a little crease forming in his brow, and Penelope smoothed it away with her thumb. She mumbled quiet nonsense to him. Stupid reassurances and platitudes mostly. But it worked. The little boy relaxed again, a little hand reaching up to curl around her fingers and a smile forming as he drifted back into dreams. He was so _sweet_. Scarred and scared though he was, Danny had to be, hands-down, the kindest, gentlest little boy she'd ever seen. He was soft-spoken and curious and he loved with every inch of himself, even though he was pretty-well terrified of his own shadow.

And he had _her _and Walker, Texas Jackassto help him, of all the fucking people.

Poor kid – the universe had dealt him just the shittiest hand of luck.

"My, my – isn't this a pretty little picture?"

Ice flooded her chest. Warning claxons screeched and bounced off the inside of her skull, and Penelope whirled to put herself between Danny and. . .

"Bertrand?! How the fuck did you even _get here_?!"

She'd been trying for a hissed complaint. What came out was a strangled gasp of panic and dread. Bertrand, it seemed, had assumed a form that lurked more on the edge of eldritch than she was accustomed to. He reclined against the closed door. Loomed over her with a nearly seven-foot frame. Jagged yellow fangs gleamed out from his condescending smile, and his eyes remained solid red. Cold, mocking, remorseless.

Hungry.

Bertrand shrugged, and the motion would've been elegant were it not for the unnatural twists in his shoulders and spine. This form jerked like a puppet with cut strings.

"Oh, sweetie, I know it's been a long time since we've seen each other, but I would've thought you'd remember I _know things_." She didn't like the way his voice danced, just on the edge of too-casual. "Walker's lair is secluded, yes. But it's not impossible to find."

The grin widened and suddenly he was in her face, a massively clawed hand brushing against the edge of her jaw. "Did you honestly think I couldn't see you out here? That I couldn't see you wasting your time playing house with that oaf of a warden and a brat with no eyes?"

_ Keep him talking. Keep him focused on you. Don't let him fixate on Danny. _

Penelope tried to ignore the panic pulsing behind her eyes like war-drums and glared at her the shape-shifter with all the venom she could muster. "No – I just thought that if you could see me out here in the Zone-boonies, you'd have the common fucking courtesy to get me the _fuck _out of here."

A slow head-tilt. Like a dog or a child in the midst of pulling the wings off a butterfly. Penelope could feel anxiety creeping along her skin. Bertrand's grin was widening, saliva dripping off yellow teeth and the soft red glow of Danny's night-light gleaming in his eyes. The hand that had brushed elegantly across her jaw a second ago moved like lightning. She hadn't expected it.

Stupid, stupid, fucking _stupid. . . _

Penelope gasped silently as long, bony fingers dug into her throat. He lifted her bodily to eye-level, expression cool as he watched her feet kick nearly a foot off the ground. She didn't _need _air. But for most in the Zone, breathing was a vestigial instinct from life. Ghosts couldn't die of oxygen-starvation. But the panic surged forward regardless, and she clawed at the hand pinioning her to the far-wall.

Bertrand lifted another finger to his lips in a shushing motion. Black hair that smelled like rot brushed her cheeks. Penelope kept their stare locked even though she wanted to puke. Didn't try to break eye-contact because she couldn't risk him glancing at Danny, focusing on Danny, _hurting Danny_. Her head was spinning. Adrenaline pounded in time with her core.

"Hush, _dýrr_," he crooned, "you'll wake the poor little tyke up. They are _so _precious when they're sleeping, are they not?"

No.

_No_!

A snarl curving her lips, Penelope fought harder against his grip, squirming until she'd wriggled enough to sink her teeth into the meat of his hand. It tasted like cold, slimy fish and blood, but she didn't let up until Bertrand snarled quietly and let go. She dropped, coughing.

"Don't you _dare_ fucking touch him!" Penelope couldn't breathe properly, but that didn't mean he had a free pass to touch her kid. "I'll rip your fucking eyes out!"

And then he was in her face again, massive frame pinning her down against the floor. He was heavy and cold and venom dripped from the fangs in his jaw as it stretched into a gaping maw, stretched violently around a hiss that sent terror rushing through every nerve in her body. An over-long tongue lapped at her cheek. Penelope shuddered, tears in her eyes.

"Careful, little raven," Bertrand crooned. "You should think carefully before running your mouth like that. It gets you into trouble. Isn't that what your precious warden friend tells you?"

It was, in fact, something that Walker told her frequently. But Penelope just bore her own teeth in a growl and spat out a curse or twelve. Bertrand chuckled, neck craning around to get a good look at Danny.

Danny, who slept peacefully not four feet away. Danny, who was so scarred from his own death that he suffered _horrific_ nightmares. Danny, who could wake up at any moment to see her pinned down by some shape-shifting eldritch _asshole_ with absolutely no regard for anything resembling morals. Danny, who loved her.

Danny, her boy.

"Do you honestly think you can be what he needs?" Though his voice had not risen from its demonic pitch, his tone was conversational. "You feed on misery, _piyavka_. Just like me. How in the world do you think to keep that from an innocent little thing like him, hm? And why are you taking so long to move in for the kill? He's so _delicious_ – why not just feed until you can't? It's what I want to do."

Penelope started struggling against his grip again, feeling bruises already starting to form around her wrists and neck. "You stay the fuck away from him!"

There was a sickening moment of realization in Bertrand's eyes, and she felt her stomach heave. "Ahh! I get it now! You actually _love _the little brat, don't you?! Oh, Penny, Penny, Penny, whatever am I going to do with you?"

_Get to Danny. Get him off and get to Danny and. . . what? Get Walker? Run away? Doesn't matter. _

_ Get to Danny_.

Penelope struggled some more, spitting out curses all the while. But it was useless. Bertrand held her effortlessly. He chuckled, the sound like nails in a blender, and brushed his mouth against the shell of her ear. It made her skin crawl with disgust.

"You're _never _going to be good enough to help him. You weren't good enough then, and you're not good enough now, and you're going to _fuck him up_, just watch. I could help you, Penny darling. We could be so _strong_ together. Come back. Bring the kid and come back and I'll fix _everything_. You'll see."

He was good with words, Bertrand. It was what sucked her into his vortex all those years ago. What made him so unsuspecting and seemingly harmless. Little shape-shifting Bertrand, hiding behind nasty Penelope with her vicious tongue and cruel heart, whispering in her ear. He was so easy to overlook. To disregard.

Sometimes, monsters hid in plain sight.

She could feel tears burning the back of her eyes. _He's not right. He's not right. He's lying. Get to Danny. Get to Danny_.

"You need to leave." Penelope took pride in the fact that her voice didn't shake. "Now."

Bertrand sighed, breath hot on her throat, and she bit down a sob when his nails raked trenches in her forearms. Red eyes came back into view. His stare was intense, probing, malicious. He could probably taste her fear. She hoped it tasted like shitty, bottom shelf liquor.

Judging by the amusement spreading on his slimy face, that wasn't the case.

"If you say so, little _piyavka_. But try to think about what I said, hmm? I'm a little tired of sitting and watching you play house with the warden. You're _nothing_ without me. You never have been, and you never will be. Why would you think that this boy and that man will make any difference?"

Without any form of warning, he leaned forward and crushed his mouth to hers, tongue snaking its way past her lips and down her throat before Penelope could even attempt to fight back. She gagged, fists pounding against the shifter's thick shoulders. She tasted blood, rot, expensive wine. It was nauseating and violating. And it ended just as quickly as it started, Bertrand taking care to slap her viciously across the face before phasing through the wall, a passing farewell scraping her raw nerves.

"Goodnight, Penny darling. Sweet dreams. And remember!" He passed out of sight, devolving into a formless mass of black and green ectoplasm. "I'm watching."

Penelope sat there in the dark, shaking, terrified. She didn't know how long. Long enough for her ass to grow numb and her split lip to scab over. Her cheek throbbed. Her throat burned. Her wrists pounded in time with the core in her chest. She couldn't decide if she wanted to puke or curl up in a ball and cry. The room smelled vaguely of damp and rotting flesh.

She didn't move until Danny whimpered in his sleep, caught in another nightmare.

Mechanically, Penelope got up from the floor and made her way over to the bed. Danny twitched under the blankets, curled in a tight ball to protect his middle. The crease between his eyes had returned. He muttered to himself every now and again. Little words, strung together to make her chest ache.

"No, Mommy. . . 'm sowwy. . . . don' wanna . . . no p'ease!"

Swallowing around the pain in her throat, Penelope crawled into bed next to him, burying her face in his thick hair as she cradled him close. Her eyes burned. Everything ached. She still couldn't quite decide if she wanted to be sick. But Danny _needed _her. And she was starting to think she needed him. Because she hadn't experienced a moment of true, genuine panic like that in a long time.

"Hush, baby," she whispered, voice a little raw. "I've got you. No one's gonna hurt you. Shush, now."

Danny snuggled as deep into her as he possibly could, whimpering a bit. "No. . . don' take 'er. Leave 'er 'lone!"

"Shhh. . . I'm right here, baby. It's alright. I'm right here."

"No. . . I'll be good. . . P'omise!"

Penelope choked down her own emotions and closed her eyes, humming softly for a moment before whispering, "You are so, _so _good, Danny. I love you _so _much."

After a second, Danny started to calm, little hands bunched in the fabric of her tank-top.

"No one will ever hurt you again."

She let the first tears fall, and held her boy as close as she could without waking him. _You're never going to be good enough for him. . . You weren't then, and you aren't now. . . You'll fuck him up, just watch._

"I promise."

~*O*~

"Jesus _fucking _Christ, Em, will you calm down for a sec?!"

That was entirely the wrong thing to say, and Johnny cursed his inability to keep his damn mouth shut for about the thirtieth time that day. Ember whirled on him, all green eyes and a shit-ton of fucking _fire_ wrapped up in a package that stood about 5'2". With her platforms she might've been 5'5" but that was stretching it.

Didn't make her any less fucking terrifying.

"Tell me to fucking calm down one more time, shit-for-brains!" Ember shrieked. "I swear to God, I'll blast you into the next damn millennium! This is the _last damn time_ Papa pulls this shit on me, I mean it!"

Johnny groaned and rubbed the back of his neck, glancing over at Taylor, who was staring at his little boots with a guilty expression plastered all over his chubby face. "C'mon, Em. You know Pops has his reasons for everything. I'm sure he didn't mean to leave you with Tay-duty at the Truce Party this year."

Tay-duty involved keeping their (former) youngest brother from blowing things up or generally being a complete shithead the whole night. Which, in theory, shouldn't have been that difficult. But nothing was ever simple where Tay was concerned. Especially bored Tay. _Especially_ bored, upset, cranky Tay who had been expecting to see Pops at the party and instead got some half-assed excuse about not feeling "up to it" that year. Along with Bullet saying that they couldn't go see him at his lair.

Which Johnny_ totally_ fucking understood, dig? But that didn't make it any easier to explain to his sister, who was ready to bring hellfire and demonic screeching literally raining down on their heads. Because Tay had decided it'd be a great fucking idea to go and wish for something stupid like a _laser canon _from Desiree for Christmas. And, of course, the wish-bitch granted it because she was a fucking asshole.

It'd been almost a week and they were still cleaning up charred scales and drywall from the venue.

Behind him, Skulker uncrossed his arms and called out to Ember. "Quit blasting, damn you! I've just had this armor upgraded."

"Fuck you and your armor, borg boy!" Ember shrieked. "If I don't get myself an actual fucking explanation in the next three seconds, _everyone fries!_"

Johnny broke out in a cold sweat. He watched Taylor gulp, the little guy's eyes widening as he tried to shrink in on himself. Shadow was writhing anxiously in the back of his mind – fire and shadows didn't exactly mix – but Skulker seemed unfazed. The hunter growled around a jaw full of metal, flame mohawk jumping in irritation.

"It takes more than three seconds for an explanation, and you know it, Ember," he growled. "So come down here and stop acting like an infant before I _make you_. You're setting a poor example for the whelp."

Of all the people in the Zone, it had to be _Skulker _that could calm his sister down?! Johnny couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief when Ember's eyes stopped threatening castration. She crossed her arms, guitar slung (wonderfully) over her back as she touched back down to earth in front of Tay.

"Fucking _fine_, alright, just tell me why Papa couldn't give me a better excuse than 'I'm not feeling up to it.' That shit was weak, and I deserve better."

She wasn't wrong. But Johnny still felt nervous about telling this many people about Danny. That poor kid had been _seriously_ fucked in the membrane. And, knowing Ember and Tay, they'd be hella excited to meet the new "baby" of the family. So excited they'd ignore the Tell Pops You're Coming Over rule. And then they'd probably either a) scare the poor kid shitless or b) get their internal organs rearranged by Penny after they successfully completed option a). None of that sounded even remotely appealing.

But here the fuck they were.

Johnny sighed again and slouched back against his bike. "Alright, none of you can tell _anyone _about this, dig?"

Tay immediately perked up. "What? Is it a secret?! I getta keep a secret?! Sweet!"

Without skipping a beat, Ember cuffed him upside the head, ignoring the loud yelp and smell of burnt hair that followed. "Yeah, yeah, we know all about Papa's anal-retentiveness when it comes to privacy. Now fucking _spill_."

This was going to end _so _badly. . .

"Pops got a new arrival sometime in November. A little boy named Danny. He's been out at the ranch with Spectra trying to get him settled ever since." The words tasted a little clunky, but that was the best he could come up with for the moment. "Poor kids _really_ fucked up."

Tay's reaction was exactly what Johnny had expected. He leapt into the air, grin so wide it bordered on painful to look at, and shouted, "I'M THE BIG BROTHER NOW?!"

And three, two, one. . .

"What the fuck do you mean Pops has been out at the ranch with a new kid?! Without _telling us?!_ What kinda fucking stupid-ass bullshit is that?!"

Johnny groaned and scrubbed a hand down his face. "Em, you're not listening. Danny's _really_ messed-up. Like I accidentally gave him a panic-attack the first time I met him messed-up. Like the kid _doesn't have eyes_ messed-up."

Ember froze. Taylor froze. Hell, even Skulker froze, and that asshat usually considered kids good target-practice.

"What do you mean he doesn't have eyes?" his sister finally asked, frowning through her swirling eyeliner. "Like, his eyes are damaged or he's blind or. . . ?"

"No," Johnny cut her off, "I mean he doesn't have any fucking eyes. It's just big pits of ectoplasm. Apparently someone had cut 'em outta his head before he died."

Ember turned vaguely green at that. Taylor started shaking.

"Holy _shit_. That's fucked up. . ."

Johnny nodded. "Yep. 's why Pops had Lieutenant Fuck-nut Shang-hai Penny. He said he couldn't deal with it all on his own, and she's the only one in the Zone with that kind of psycho-mumbo-jumbo to help him."

Taylor blinked up at him with wide eyes. "Holy shit, wait, you mean _Spectra's_ living with _Papa_?!"

Another cuff to the head and Ember barked, "Don't swear! You're not old enough for it!" She then turned to Johnny with a grin. "Penny and Papa, huh? This I gotta see."

Dread crept down Johnny's spine even as Skulker groaned behind him. He thought he caught a muttered, "Not this shit again" but didn't want to comment.

"No. . . NO! C'mon, Em, my ass is still in hot water from the last time I showed up without giving him a warning! Even Kitty told me it was a bad idea! Don't go doin' somethin'. . ."

Both Ember and Taylor shot off towards Pops' layer in a haze of smoke, shouting at each other about a race as they went, and Johnny came to the sudden, sickening realization that he should have stayed the fuck in bed that morning. He turned and looked at Skulker, who seemed utterly resigned to his fate.

"Guess we gotta go after 'em, huh?" Johnny muttered.

"That would be the best thing to do," Skulker replied, rockets extending from along his cybernetically-enhanced spine. "But that doesn't mean I have to like it. Ember might be her Papa's favorite girl, but I'm decently sure he still hates me."

Johnny laughed and revved the engine to his Harley up. They both took off after Ember and Tay, leaving the lonely pile of rock to float through the Zone.

"Dude, Pops fuckin' _loathes _you. You're gonna die. _Again_."

**A/N:**

**I. . . AM. . . RISEN!**

**So I've been sick as FUCK for the past two days and decided, hell, while I'm here slowly dying and begging the universe to just claim my fucking soul, I might as well work on torturing my characters a little more. Because why the fuck not? Thanks so much to all the reviewers who gave me advice on getting through my writer's block. And thanks to all you lovely reviewers in general! You're the reason I push forward with this story (not really, but you help keep the ball rolling) so I feel it rude to not acknowledge all the wonderful things you do for me.**

**And for those who may be confused by Bertrand's sudden. . . dramatic shift from the gooey little shit we know in canon, suffice it to say that I knew I had to have a personal demon for each of my main characters, a sort of catalyst to explain why they're them. For Penelope, it's Bertrand, who could have been a _much _more terrifying character if he'd been given the chance to really become an eldritch horror. But Danny Phantom _was _a children's show. . . **

**But then again, so was Ren and Stimpy and that shit gave me fucking nightmares for YEARS so. . . yeah.**

**Also Ember and Youngblood (Taylor) are little shits. And I love them. This has been a public service announcement. **

**ANYWAY! Thank you all so much for reading this far into my dark spiral into insanity, and I hope you've enjoyed the ride! Constructive criticism is always welcome, your thoughts are much appreciated, and I will see you in the next chapter.**


	11. Chapter 11

Something was wrong.

He didn't know what. He didn't know how. And he sure as heck didn't know why. But Jeremiah Walker had a sixth-sense about these things. So he knew _something_ was wrong.

It rankled him from the second his eyes opened, master bedroom still dark and the house eerily silent. Walker hadn't been a superstitious man in life, and in death he wasn't prone to jumping to conclusions, but the feeling made him tense either way. Because this wasn't normal before-everyone-woke-up quiet. That kind tended to get broken by Danny mumbling in his sleep, Spectra letting out a snore or two (although she'd bust her own lung before she'd admit to it), or the house settling. This was heavy quiet. A quiet that pressed down hard on your ears until you thought your head was gonna pop.

The kind of quiet you experience near predators.

Walker tried to shake it off. Tried to go about his normal morning routine. But his shoulders stayed tense through his shower, his hands clenched so tight around his tooth-brush they cramped, and by the time he'd finished combing his hair he'd formed himself a lovely little tension headache. Were he a different man, it could almost be classified as anxiety. But Jeremiah Walker didn't do "anxiety."

It was a bad feeling, that's all.

But something kept whispering in the back of his mind. A nagging little voice that said he needed to check on Danny. Which didn't make sense because Walker knew dang well Spectra had slept in the punk's room last night – as she tended to do after a longer day or when he'd had a bad anxiety attack – so there wasn't any need. But it wouldn't leave him alone.

Walker briefly considered it a weakness when he found himself marching down the hall without changing out of his pajamas, just because tanks and flannel bottoms weren't exactly intimidating. He glanced into Spectra's bedroom. Empty as he expected. The feeling didn't go away as he paced towards the last doorway.

Still. . . if there was one thing he'd learned over the years, it was to _always _follow your gut. No matter how ridiculous you thought you were being.

Gently, so he wouldn't wake up Danny on accident, Walker knocked on the door frame. "Spectra? You up yet?"

No answer. Typical – woman usually drug her lazy self outta bed when she finally caught the smell of food. Or when Danny called for her. The latter was usually more effective. Still, he wasn't surprised by the lack of response. Didn't help his nerves any, though.

Walker fought with himself for a moment. If there was nothing wrong, and he went in, then he'd be waking Danny _and_ the She-Devil before they needed to be up. Which was _not _a good way to start the day (a lesson he'd learned early on). But if there _was_. . .

Hesitation wasn't an option. Walker opened the door slowly, creeping into the room as quietly as he could. Danny's red night-light cast weird shadows on the furniture and walls, but he could see well enough. His boy was curled in the middle of the bed, wrapped around a massive gray teddy that they'd gotten him for Christmas. On the sly, of course – couldn't have people thinking his kids were _spoiled _or nothing. The blankets had been tucked firmly around his little body, pillows fluffed and arranged.

But Spectra wasn't there.

He _knew _she'd slept in here. Almost a month together had given him at least a little insight into how she operated, and she _always _slept in Danny's room after a break-through or a bad day. Like clockwork. It didn't make sense for her to break pattern now. Not after Danny admitted how much he loved them.

The claxons in the back of his skull were _screaming_.

Tense, anxious, Walker closed the door to Danny's bedroom with a quiet _snick_ and padded back down the hall. The muscles in his shoulders felt like they would never unwind, fine hairs along his neck and forearms on end. Glanced in the bathroom. Empty. Nothing in her bedroom. It was still. Quiet. He could hear his own core pounding in his ears.

He rounded the corner to the stairs, teeth grinding to dust in his jaw. But then he noticed a light on in the kitchen. Walker relaxed ever so slightly. He descended the stairs quietly, feet bare on the carpet runner, listening hard for any sort of sound. Thankfully, he was greeted by the sound of muffled cursing.

"C'mon, Penelope, it's just a couple of cuts. Quit being a bitch-baby. . . Fucking _shit_!"

It almost made him snort. But his nerves still couldn't handle whatever his gut feeling was, so he suppressed the urge. Instead, Walker stepped into the dim kitchen with a frown, ready to tear into Spectra for both swearing in his house _and _freaking him out by being awake at oh-five-thirty. Except he couldn't force himself to do either of those things.

Because Spectra was leaning over the sink, ectoplasm dripping over her forearms and staining the floor, a _huge _shiner glaring on the left side of her face.

"What in the name of Jesus _Christ_ happened to you?!"

The words bubbled out before he could stop them, and Spectra froze in the midst of pouring disinfectant. Walker tracked her movements – cataloguing body language was something that he'd learned from the academy – as she whirled around to look at him. He'd never seen such wide-eyed panic from the woman. She was always so confident. So in control of herself.

Now she looked like every abuse victim he'd seen while on the force.

"What the _fuck_, Walker?!" It was a snarl, panicked, like an animal who'd been trapped. "Why the shit are you even down here?!"

He couldn't. . .

He couldn't _breathe._ . .

Walker crossed the room in two steps, wide-eyed and unable to really grasp what the heck was going on. "What happened?!"

Under the violent bruising covering her left eye and cheekbone, Spectra flushed bright red. Her jaw clenched, body visibly shaking. She tried to cover the ragged gashes on each forearm. But there was no covering them, not when one hand wouldn't even spread all the way over them. Not when they were dripping green all over his clean floors, deep enough that they hadn't healed yet. They _hadn't healed yet_.

"It's nothing," she lied, avoiding eye-contact. "Just had a bit of an accident, that's all."

"An accident?!" Walker snapped, just barely keeping his voice below a shout. "An accident that gave you a shiner the size'a Dallas an' sliced you up like a Christmas ham?! Jesus, sugar, don' gimme that!"

Spectra flinched away from him, and Walker felt his brain implode a little. Rage pulsed behind his eyes, and for a second all he could hear was the sound of ectoplasm hitting the floor in fat droplets. But he had to keep his cool. Going off like a Fourth of July display wouldn't do anything but make things worse. He knew that. Didn't mean he had to frickin' like it, though.

"Alright, alright," he soothed, " 'm sorry. Didn' mean ta yell. Let's get'cha cleaned up 'fore Danny rolls around. Can't go scarin' 'im."

Something in his gut soured when Walker realized she still wouldn't make eye-contact. Jaw still clenched, glaring down at the floor, Spectra turned back to the sink and started the tap. She didn't say another word, just went back to scrubbing ectoplasm off her skin. The sink was stained green. Gently, Walker reached out and took hold of her wrist. He was a little shocked that she didn't fight him.

He took the antiseptic-soaked towel from her and started to wash. The gashes were deep. And if they'd been _anything_ other than ghost-inflicted, they would've already healed themselves.

"Jesus, Pen, who did this to you?" Walker breathed.

For the first time since he'd caught her off-guard, Spectra looked him in the eye. They shone in the dim kitchen lights, bright emerald with red veins running through them. And her expression hit him square in the diaphragm because she looked so damn _skeptical_. Skeptical and angry and hopeless.

"Why the hell do you care?" she shot back. "The bruise'll be gone by the time Danny wakes up, and I can cover these with bandages. I wouldn't let him see. You know better than to think that."

What made him upset was that she was right on both counts. That shiner looked _gnarly,_ lots of shades of green and brown, so it was going to be gone in an hour or two. And he did know better. Spectra loved that boy more than anyone could possibly imagine, more than anyone probably thought she was _capable _of. So why was she so callous about this? Why did she think that he wouldn't care whether or not she was getting torn to pieces and beaten silly in the middle of the night? _In his house?_

Walker could feel his shoulders tightening. He could hear war-drums pounding in his head.

"Do y'all really think 'm that shallow?" he questioned. "That I don' care that someone beat ya silly? You're a sassy pain in my rear with a filthy mouth, sug, but I ain't about ta sit by an' let someone beat the fire outta ya when 'm not lookin'."

The air was silent for several long minutes.

Spectra swallowed thickly, and Walker saw something behind her gaze break a little. He stopped staring, went back to gently cleaning out her gashes. It took a while just because the edges had been shredded and they were deep. He catalogued each one in his head. Standard inflammation, normal reactions to trauma. He'd seen plenty during his time in the military. Grabbing a roll of bandages, the warden started to wrap each forearm, making sure the skin surrounding the wounds was clean and dry. When he was finished, Walker shoved her gently towards the kitchen table.

"Sit down an' I'll pour ya a drink," he growled. "You're shakin', an' those've gotta hurt. It'll take the edge off."

There was something _really_ wrong.

Because Spectra did as she was told without a word.

Tense, angry with himself for not being able to keep this from happening, Walker cleaned up the mess spattered over the hardwood and countertop. The bright green stains mocked him. Made him wonder whether he wanted to put his fist through a wall or throw up. Instead, he gritted his teeth and powered through. The ancient rag he'd grabbed was soaked through by the time he got done.

After searching through the liquor cabinet for a minute, he poured two fingers of bourbon in a tumbler and slumped into the chair nearest Spectra. "Here. Sip it slow – don' want a repeat of last time."

Thankfully, she offered him a half-hearted glare, so she wasn't _entirely_ lost in her own head. But her fingers still shook as she took a swig, and the broken something behind her eyes still hadn't gone away. Walker leaned a little onto his elbows to get a closer look at Spectra. He hadn't noticed before, but there were more bruises around her throat, already faded to near-nothing. They were shaped like hand-prints, and he was willing to bet money that there were definite finger marks on the back of her neck.

Rage resurged through his chest.

"Would you quit _staring _at me?!" Spectra growled. "I know I look like shit. You don't have to paint a fucking billboard on my forehead."

Walker thought his head was about to explode. "Spectra, you got _handprints_ on yer _neck_! Forgive me fer bein' old-fashioned, but I grew up thinkin' it wasn' right to beat a woman senseless."

"Yeah, well, not everyone seems to have gotten that memo." Spectra shifted uncomfortably in her seat, a fingernail picking at the edge of her bandages. "It's nothing, really. I'm a big girl, can get drunk and put on bandages all by myself next time."

Did she just not _get it_?

"Hon, do ya really think it's okay for someone ta do this to you?" he rasped.

Her answer was short and clipped, eyes flashing crimson as she shot him a withering look. "No. I don't. But it's not like I can really _do_ anything about it. So here the fuck we are."

"Watch yer mouth." It was an automatic response. "An what d'ya mean ya 'can't do anything about it?' I know you ain't weak; fight back! Or call me fer backup!"

Spectra ran her finger around the rim of her glass, face a mask of indifference. "I just couldn't, okay? Drop it."

"That ain't gonna fly an' y'all know it!" Walker snarled. "What. Happened?"

A delicate hand slammed the tumbler down on the kitchen table, and Spectra roared, "HE COULD'VE HURT DANNY, OKAY?! IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT TO FUCKING KNOW?! THAT I'M A DUMBASS AND CAN'T EVEN PROTECT A LITTLE BOY RIGHT?!"

There were many things about Penelope Spectra that he didn't understand in the slightest. This moment looked like it would be one of them. She was panting, livid, black veins creeping along her skin. But what got him were the tears, big angry ones that gathered at the corners of her eyes. It made his throat grow tight.

"Is that. . . is that what you think?" Walker started, voice hoarse. "That you gotta get _beaten_ to protect Danny from some. . . _waste_ who would do this to you?"

Her silence was an answer in of itself.

"Jesus, Pen! What did they even _say_?! I would'a come in a sec if you'd a jus' called me!"

Spectra was still crying – angry crying, he was sure, but crying – and she was so tense he thought that something would break in her jaw. Then, so quiet he could barely hear it, she whispered, "He didn't have to say anything. I know him. He'd break Danny. And he wouldn't even bat an eye."

He knew _immediately_ who she was talking about. "How did Bertrand even _get here_?"

Fingers trembling, Spectra dropped her head into her hands and choked out, "I have no fucking clue how Bertrand does _anything_. But it was better to let him hurt me. Because then he was focused on _me_, not Danny. I can take it – I don't think Danny can."

Walker just stared and tried to swallow around the lump in his throat. "Hon, you shouldn' hafta take it. _Nobody_ should get tossed around like he did you."

Her breath hitched, caught somewhere in her chest, and it made the warden's skin itch. Slowly, Spectra looked up at him, and the warden felt his heart squeeze. The tears weren't angry anymore. They were heartbroken, defeated. Everything that he thought this outspoken, foul-mouthed, pain in his rear could never be.

"I was sitting watching Danny, and he was just _there_," she rasped. "I didn't even hear him get in. How could I not have heard him get in?"

No. She was blaming herself for everything Bertrand did. That was _not_ okay. And neither were the tears that still ran over her cheeks.

"Now you stop that," he growled half-heartedly. "It ain't yer fault he got in. Nothin' 'bout this is your fault. Jus' _tell me_ next time. I promise, he ain't gonna touch you again. Not if I got somethin' to say 'bout it."

Spectra stared at him for a long moment, tears still gushing, and something about her expression made his stomach tie itself in knots. It reminded him _way_ too much of Danny when they tried to tell him he was a good kid, or when they said he could have this toy or this food. A combination of disbelief and skepticism and desperate hope.

"You can't promise me that," she whispered.

"The heck I can't! You watch me." The tears came faster, and Walker shifted in his chair, uncomfortable. "Aww, c'mon, sugar! I ain't good at dealin' with cryin', makes m' skin itch."

Spectra scrubbed at her eyes with the heel of one hand, the skin around them red and puffy. "I'm not _crying_, asshole. My eyes are watering because my arms burn like a motherfucker."

He couldn't help but grin a little – there she was. "Watch yer mouth. Danny'll be up in a bit."

"Fucking bite me." The words were filthy, but they held no real heat.

This time, he laughed. "What 'm I gonna do with you? 's like everythin' I say goes in one ear an' out the other."

One fist – not big, but bony as all get-out – smacked him in the bicep. It stung. But Spectra managed to smile up at him, and Walker felt his shoulders relax for the first time since he woke up that morning. Without thinking, he reached out and wiped the tears off her cheeks with a thumb, gently tapping her on the chin when he was done.

"Anyone ever tell you you're an asshole, Tex?" she joked, eyes a little wide.

Walker snorted. "Please – I hear that at _least _four times a day, sugar. An' I ain't been to the prison in nearly a month."

They stood, and as he plucked the empty tumbler off the table, Spectra reached over and grasped his wrist. She squeezed it gently, not looking him in the eye. "Thank you, Walker."

For a second, he didn't say anything. Then he grinned and snarked, "You're welcome, Pen. But tell me somethin' – did that hurt? Sounded like it did."

Another punch hit it's mark right over the first one, underlined by an exasperated snort. "Fuck off! I'm trying to thank you like a normal person."

"There ain't _nobody_ that's gonna believe that. But like I said, you're welcome." Walker gestured towards the door. "Y'all might wanna get back up there. Danny'll work 'imself up if he wakes up an' you ain't there."

Spectra nodded. "I'll be down with him in a little while. Are you making pancakes again?"

This was oddly domestic, given how awful the morning had been thus far. But he wouldn't complain. He'd take domestic over damaged any day. Not that anything involving Danny didn't shriek "damaged" either way.

"Either that or French toast." He shrugged. "You got a preference? Since we're both up, I figured we could have an early breakfast. 's not like we ain't got time."

He'd figured out that while Spectra thought misery was a delicacy, she was a nightmare to try and cook for. Because she was a picky brat. But they'd figured out if he gave her options, she usually picked what she would eat. Danny didn't care either way. . .

Mostly because the little boy was just excited to have food.

"I like French toast better, but I'm pretty sure Danny would rather eat pancakes because _someone _spoils him and makes shapes."

Walker scowled as he scrubbed the glass she'd used. "I do not _spoil_ him! Jus' 'cause I'm good at makin' Mickey Mouse pancakes don' mean I do it _every_ time."

She shot him a Look. "You made him an _actual_ train last week. With bacon tracks. And _steam_."

Even though his cheeks were burning a little, Walker just shrugged it off. "He's had a rough go of it. Figured if he wanted a train, I should give 'im a train. That ain't spoilin' – that's just bein' decent."

Spectra rolled her eyes. "God forbid someone accuse you of being the soft parent, Tex."

"Would you get on?! 'm tryin' ta get yer French toast together, an' I can't do that if someone's standin' there sassin' me!" He wasn't about to comment on the fact that they were, for all intents and purposes, Danny's parents at this point.

It was a can of worms that didn't need to be opened.

The grin that he got in response was nothing short of dazzling, and it punched him square in the chest. "Whatever, cowboy. I'm going to wake him up and get him dressed. Half an hour good?"

Walker glanced at the clock. It was nearly seven. "Yeah. Shouldn't take much longer 'n that."

As she turned to leave, Spectra paused and turned back. "Does my face still look like a poster for Haven House? I don't want to go up there if I'm just going to traumatize him the minute he opens his eyes."

At this point, you'd have to be looking for them to see the bruises. "No. You ain't gonna traumatize him when he wakes up."

But Walker felt like they'd been burned into his brain.

He'd have to make a call to Bullet.

~*O*~

They were going to get fucking _destroyed_.

"Your Harley's slow as _shit_, old man! Think you can catch us?!" Ember's shriek set his teeth on edge.

Tay piped in a second later. "Nah, nah, n-nah, nah! Catch us if you can, losers!"

His bones were already starting to ache from the sheer volume of bullshit spewing from the pair of them.

Johnny was pushing his Harley as fast as it could go, but Ember and Tay were _fast_-fast. Like it bordered on the ridiculous fast. He growled to himself – Shadow wouldn't work here. He was faster than the pair of _jackasses_ up ahead, but a lot more destructive. It wouldn't do anything but make the chase more fun for Tay. With the _wonderful_ bonus of pissing of Ember, of course.

Beside him, Skulker's rockets were whining in vicious protest against the speeds they were traveling. The ghost himself was muttering quiet curses.

"Why the hell couldn't these two have a normal hobby? Like _not getting us all killed_?!"

Johnny snorted. "Dude, you're the one who decided to date Em. You got no one to blame but you."

Skulker dodged a cannonball – Taylor was in full Youngblood mode by now – and shot him a glare that probably could've melted brains. "Would you like to keep talking? Perhaps I can cut off the chase and spend my time mounting your pelt on my wall?"

What was it with this dude and pelts? Johnny shuddered a bit, trying to force down the prickle of cold anger Shadow rushed up his spine. His bud was awesome most of the time, but threats didn't usually sit well. Sometimes it took a lot to keep him from. . . _doing things_. Bad things. Like, pass on to the Other Side bad things.

"Now is so not the time to be mad at me, dig?" As he watched, Ember and Taylor started the sweep around the event horizon of a very familiar black hole. "They're really gonna get someone hurt if we don't stop them. And by someone, I mean them. Penelope will literally eat them alive."

She would.

Penelope was a fucking _machine_ when someone made her angry, apparently, and Johnny had seen enough to know that if they scared Danny, she would carve out their cores with a smile before she shoved them back down their respective throats. It'd be ugly as _shit_. And he _really_ wasn't brave enough to deal with angry Penny _and _ready-to-slaughter Pops.

So here they were.

Trying to keep Ember and Tay from doing stupid things.

_Again_.

They didn't have much time. And even though he knew his poor bike didn't have much more to give him, Johnny leaned into the throttle as hard as he could. Beside him, Skulker's rockets had reached a fever-pitch of shrieking. They were gaining ground. But it wasn't enough, not by a long-shot, because Ember had already touched down on the front lawn. Tay landed right behind her, cackling as he sprinted towards the front door on bare feet.

Well – bare foot and prosthetic metal foot-contraption _thing_. Somehow he'd lost his little boots between the Rock-in-the-Middle-of-Nowhere and here.

Johnny felt panic creep up his throat. They were gonna bust open the door. Bust open the door and make a _metric fuck-ton_ of noise. Which would send poor Danny into a shrieking panic attack, Pops into a Mood, and prompt Penny to eviscerate them.

So, in he did something really fucking stupid. "Shadow, trap!"

There was a burst of excited malice in his chest, and then Shadow was gone. He rushed along the grass like an ink-spill, claws outstretched towards Tay and Ember. Poor bastards never knew what hit them. One second, Ember was shoving their little brother away so she could rush up the porch stairs. The next, she was flat on her fucking face alongside him, Shadow growling happily over them.

It would've been kind of a dick move if they hadn't been such assholes all damn morning. At this point, Ember's swearing and Tay's panicked shriek were like music.

Sweet, sweet music. . .

Relief washing over him, Johnny dropped his bike onto a patch of grass away from the pair. Took his sweet damn time wandering over too. Skulker followed him a second later, the rockets retracting into his metallic body. He was scowling. Which was normal, right? But Johnny felt like, in this case, it was understandable.

"What the actual _fuck_, Dickhead?!" Ember snarled. "Get Spooky the Specter off me!"

Her hair was going to catch the lawn on fire again. Pops would be _pissed_. But, at this point, Johnny almost wanted to say "fuck it" and watch the explosion. Which was probably a bad idea – but with his track record, it was pretty much expected.

"Shadow, keep 'em there." Johnny tapped a cigarette out of his case, lighting it with the tip of one finger. "You dumbasses are gonna sit there until I can get somethin' through your fuckin' heads, got it?"

He didn't really like swearing around Tay all that much – made his Pops radar go off – but there were situations where it just had to happen. Like now. This was one.

"Aww, c'mon Johnny!" Taylor whined, arms crossed as he pouted under one of Shadow's huge claws. "We just wanna meet the new kid! He's younger than me, right? You didn't say, but I know. I wanna be the big bro for once!"

Skulker made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort. "You had better listen to him, whelp. The warden isn't very well known for his forgiving nature. I wonder what he would do if he figured out you deliberately disobeyed one of his Rules, hmm?"

That was a low fucking blow.

But it seemed to get the job done. Ember stopped squirming, face pale under her makeup, and Tay's eyes went wide. Poor little guy gulped, lips wobbling.

"Johnny, he wouldn't do anything bad to us, right? I don't wanna go to jail. Ember says I have a pretty mouth!" Taylor yelped.

Johnny could practically _feel _his skin crawl, and he shot his little sister a Look. "Jesus, Em, what the fuck did you tell him?!"

"I told him not to drop the soap." She shrugged even though Shadow had her pinned. "It's solid advice, dude, there's some real creeps in Papa's joint."

"He's _ten!_"

A blank look of confusion. "So?"

Johnny didn't know if he wanted to scream or just break something. Maybe both. He'd figure it out later. He settled on running both hands through his hair – it was already gross, hadn't brushed it in a couple days – before scrubbing them down his face. Skulker's metal body was creaking behind him. For some godforsaken reason, the giant metal asshole was _laughing_. Hard. And trying not to make it sound like he was laughing, which he was fucking _bad at_, and every inch of his being wanted to toss open the door and let Pops unleash.

But he was the big brother, dammit, and the curse of Johnny Can't Keep His Fucking Mouth Shut wasn't about to change that.

Besides, Shadow was getting a little antsy being this close to both Pops and Ember's hair. So they had to get this shit-show on the road.

"Alright, so here's what the fuck is gonna happen," Johnny growled. "I'm going to go in and get my _ass _handed to me by Pops. Then, I'm gonna explain that you two are a pair of idiots who don't listen and let him decide what to do. But what are we not going to do? We're not going to go busting through the front door like _assholes_ because there's a four-year-old with PTSD living in our old bedroom. Got it? Good."

Ember opened her mouth to argue.

"Don't argue with him, Ember." Skulker's voice rumbled like thunder – it was kinda cool actually. "You've got a bad habit of letting your temper get the best of you."

He wasn't wrong. Like at all. But it was still weird watching Ember actually _listen_ to someone who wasn't Pops. Well, Pops or someone who was about to kick the shit out of her. Once she'd gotten into a fight with Desiree that ended with her having her lips glued shut for a month. It'd been fucking hysterical.

Johnny took one last drag from his cigarette. The nicotine burned his lungs, but it made his nerves settle just a little bit. God, his family would kill him if he wasn't already, you know, dead. He stubbed it out on the bottom of his boot. Then, slumping his shoulders, because this was going to fucking suck, he trudged up the porch steps to his inevitable doom.

Okay, that might've been an exaggeration, but still. . .

He rapped three times on the door, then waited. His palms were sweaty. Behind him, he could hear Skulker and Ember arguing about whether or not leaving him to get destroyed was a good plan. Tay was on Ember's side (of course) in that he wanted to stay just long enough to watch him get his ass beat before Pops could figure out they were there too. Skulker, like the vicious twat he was, said it wasn't worth the effort because Bullet would catch them just as soon as they got away.

_Great show of support, guys_, Johnny thought. _You're solid fuckin' backup._

The door swung open, and he looked up, expecting to see Pops glaring death down upon his head. But there was no one there. Blinking, Johnny looked down.

Instead of Pops glaring death, it was Penny. Dressed in a pair of pajama bottoms that were too big – were those even hers? – and an old Aerosmith tank. Who looked ready to break his spine and suck his core through it like a straw. Which was fucking _horrifying_, thank you very much, and Johnny regretted his decision to take one for the team with every inch of his soul.

"What the actual fuck do you idiots think you're doing?" Penny hissed. "We could hear you screeching at each other ten goddamn minutes ago!"

Johnny gulped, then smiled awkwardly. "Hopefully not getting our limbs broken?"

Penny's glare turned bright red, and the black veins he hated so much started to creep out around her eyes. Johnny backpedaled as fast as he could, hands raised in the universal "I surrender" gesture. Because, _holy shit_. . .

"Jesus, Penny, I just came to talk to Pops! Ember and Tay found out about Danny and they're being assholes because they want to meet him and I couldn't really _stop them_, dig, so I figured I'd come up here and explain everything before they screwed shit up, and could you please stop staring at me like that because I think my core's trying to melt in my fucking chest?"

Everything erupted in this spew of word-vomit, and Johnny had never wanted to crawl into a hole and disappear so badly in his fucking afterlife. Penelope narrowed her eyes at him, and it was like being under a fucking microscope. An evil microscope that made people want to jump in a tank full of sharks. But just as she opened her mouth to answer him, Pops came rolling into the living room, Danny tucked into the crook of his arm.

"Pen, let 'em in." He sounded more tired than angry, which was a little surprising, but Johnny wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth. "They're gonna meet 'im at some point or another. Might as well be now."

The black veins and red eyes went away in a blink, and Penelope turned to gap at Pops. "You're not serious?!"

Pops just lifted an eyebrow and shrugged. "I mean, it's up t' the punk here, really." He glanced over at Danny, who'd been watching them nervously the whole time. "What d'ya think, kiddo? Wanna meet some new people?"

Danny chewed on his lower lip until Pops pulled it out from between his teeth, and Johnny couldn't get over the big pits of ectoplasm in the kid's head. They'd gotten a bit more solid since he'd last seen them. But they just. . . didn't look _right_, you know? Like, he couldn't help but recoil a bit every time he caught a look at them.

"Are they nice?" he rasped, very quiet. "Not gonna hurt me?"

Pops shook his head once. "No, Danny. Ain't no one in this house gonna hurt you, understand? I promise."

For a second, no one moved. Not Danny, not Spectra, not Pops. Johnny didn't think he even _breathed_ at all. But then, very slowly, the little guy nodded.

"Okay."

Spectra made a weird sound, kind of like a squeak? Or maybe it was just a super quiet, hella strangled shriek. Either way, it made Johnny back away real quick. He looked over at Pops again. He was glaring – surprise, surprise, Johnny fucked up again – but still didn't seem _too_ angry, so that was a good thing, at least.

"Y'all come in _quiet_," he growled. "An' the moment Danny says he's done, ya gotta leave. Understand?"

Johnny nodded. "Got it, Pops."

He looked over his shoulder at the others, who had apparently been staring with their mouths wide-open the whole damn time, and jerked his chin towards the door. Shadow returned only when he hissed a command under his breath. Taylor got up quicker than Ember, excitement written all over his chubby face. He made to rush into the house.

"Woah, woah, woah, big guy!" Johnny grabbed him just in time, kneeling to look him in the eye. "You've gotta move slow and be quiet. Remember how scared you were when you first got to the Zone? How you didn't like when Em stared at your leg and arm bein' gone? That's what it's like for Danny except he's got it a lot worse. He's little and kinda scared. So you've gotta be patient with him, okay?"

Taylor nodded, eyes still wide but so earnest it made Johnny chuckle. "I got it! I won't stare or _nothin_', sailor's honor!"

He glanced over at Ember, who'd managed to stand up with Skulker's help. "That goes for you too, Em. Don't scare him right off the bat."

She scowled. "Shut up! I know what I'm doing!"

Yeah. . . like Johnny hadn't heard _that _one before. When he stood back up, Spectra was glowering at him again, and it kind of, sort of, might've made him jump. Tay squeaked and hid behind his legs.

"If you scare him again," she hissed, "I will break every bone in your body and leave that stupid Shadow of yours to burn. I'll _end you_."

Holy _fucking _shit.

"Pen, leave 'im alone. He didn' mean it last time, an' he knows better." Pops was an angel, an angel dressed in bad flannel pajamas. "Now get in here an' quit threatenin' my brats."

With one last filthy look, Spectra let them into the house, stalking back over to where Pops stood with Danny. Johnny didn't really know if he wanted to go in now. Because she'd meant every word, and he wasn't exactly strong enough to fight her really, dig? But then Tay pushed on the back of his knees, the sound of Ember's heavy boots on the front porch echoing, and he couldn't _really_ not go in, could he?

He took a deep breath and stepped over the threshold. The house was warmer than normal – probably something to do with Danny being so skinny – and it smelled like cinnamon. French Toast, maybe? It was about time for breakfast. Taylor had reached up to grab his hand, Ember shoving her hands into the small of his back.

"I'm goin', I'm goin'!" Johnny griped. "Jesus, have some patience."

Ember snorted as she stepped around him, hair flickering quietly. "Yeah, right. Move over, stupid."

They were moving too quick. Johnny could see Danny starting to shake a little, face buried against Pops' shoulder. He was in a new outfit, a soft pair of blue-fleece pants and a shirt covered in stars. But he didn't think the stars were helping at all.

Pops jogged Danny just a little bit, obviously trying to ignore Spectra hovering at his elbow. "C'mon, bud. Y'all gotta say 'hi' if you wanna be polite."

Of course, Taylor was the first one to pipe up, a massive grin on his chubby cheeks. "Hi! I'm Taylor! But lotsa people call me Tay. What's your name?"

He was pretty quiet, all things considering, but maybe just a bit too loud. Danny let out a weird squeaking noise at the enthusiasm. But then, still shaking, he peeked out from his hiding place. Johnny put a hand on Tay's shoulder and squeezed to keep him from saying anything. But, somehow, there was no reaction. Just the barely-contained enthusiasm that his baby-bro always seemed to have. The big pits of ectoplasm in Danny's head were still horrific, still awful, and they didn't phase Tay at all.

"H-hi," the littlest boy squeaked. "I'm Danny."

Holy _shit_. . .

It was funny that went through his head. Because that's exactly what Ember muttered right next to him. Johnny elbowed her because, _hello_, it was one thing to swear around Tay but it was another thing to swear around Danny. Who was four. . .

And now he felt like a hypocrite because the first time he ever met the poor little guy, it'd ended in a lot of swearing and a panic attack.

So Johnny was going to do the best thing for Johnny and keep his goddamn mouth shut.

Taylor's grin widened – like, how was that even possible? – and he practically vibrated in place. "Hi Danny!"

Ember managed to get her shit together enough to fake a smile, even though Johnny was pretty sure she was going to break his hand. "Hey, brat. I'm Ember."

Danny leaned a little further away from Pops, mouth popping into a comical "o!" of surprise. "Pwetty!" He bounced in excitement, grinning over at Penny wide enough that Johnny could see his missing left canine. "Pen, she gots blue haiw!"

It took everything in him not to grin. That'd been Tay's reaction to the fire-hair too. Except _he'd_ gone and tried to yank on it, which ended in a lot of burns, yelling, and Pops nearly blowing an artery in his temple. Danny was probably a lot less prone to wrecking shit.

"Yes, baby, I can see that," Penny chuckled, and it sounded a little wet. "But you shouldn't point at other people. It's rude."

Danny nodded solemnly and looked back over at them. " 'm sowwy, Ember."

Em cackled. "Nah, don't sweat it, kid. But I like your hair more. It's pretty punk-rock."

Well, she wasn't _wrong_, exactly. The snowy-white hair did look like it belonged in an old Alice Cooper music video. Pops rolled his eyes towards the ceiling and groaned. Penny looked torn between glaring and trying not to laugh.

"C'mon, princess, quit tryin' ta corrupt 'im. He don' know what 'punk-rock' means yet. An' I'd like ta keep it that'a way!"

Shrugging, Ember took a couple of steps closer, arms crossed. "Oh _please_! It's not like I'm going to start putting makeup on him or anything yet. That has to wait until he's _at least _known me a year. I'm just going to. . . expand his musical horizons, that's all."

Passing Danny over to Penny with one arm, Pops narrowed his eyes and pointed. "If I hear any 'a that pop-punk, _My Chemical Romance_ crap comin' outta his room, it'll be yer hide."

The threat didn't work like it was supposed to because Ember grinned, eyes twinkling, and Taylor couldn't seem to stop giggling. "You actually remembered their name! Oh, Papa, I'm so proud of you!"

"They grow up so fast!" Taylor managed to gasp out through his giggling-fit.

For the first time since they'd showed up, Penny didn't look like she wanted to skin them all. She was hiding a giggle behind her hand, the edge of a white bandage just brushing her cheek. Johnny frowned. Well, how the fuck had he missed _that_? Bandage or no bandage, Pops was blushing and glaring at the same time. Which made everything funny.

"Why do I put up with y'all?" he growled. "What've I done t'deserve all this?"

Danny reached over and patted Pops on the arm, not quite giggling since he didn't really understand the joke. "Is okay, Walk."

It looked like Ember was going to explode. Mostly because the little guy was just so damn _cute_. She stepped a little bit closer, but stopped when Danny flinched away, burying himself into Penny's collarbone.

"Aww, c'mon, Babypop!" Ember coaxed. "I thought we were gonna get along?"

No answer.

Penny jostled him just a little bit. "Danny, sweetie, do you want to stop? You don't have to talk if you don't want to."

Honestly, that was kinda disappointing? Not that Johnny didn't get it! People were fucking awful, and he didn't want to add any more stress to the poor kiddo's life, but they'd literally _just _got finished laughing at Pops? It felt sort of anti-climactic. And he could tell that Tay felt the same way from the massive pout that was forming, arms crossed and frown creasing between his eyes. Johnny didn't blame him either – they hadn't seen Pops in almost two months, and now they were getting shoved out the door.

Then Tay grinned. "Hey, Danny, do you wanna go upstairs and play instead? We don't gotta talk if you don't wanna!"

For a second, no one moved. No one breathed. They all just stood there, gaping like a bunch of idiots at Taylor, who had _literally no fucking clue_ how monumental what he just said was. Because. . .? Did Danny even remember how to play? Johnny remembered coming here and being really fucked up by what his old man had done when he was, you know, alive. But what the little guy had been through was a whole different damn ball-game. He couldn't even wrap his head around trusting someone enough to _play_ after getting your eyes scooped out like hard-boiled eggs or something.

Ugh, he shouldn't have thought that. Now he was queasy.

But then Danny _smiled_, just a tiny one, and glanced over at Pops and Penny. "Can we?"

Spectra looked like she was going to cry. Which was really fucking weird. And Pops looked like a stout wind could blow him over.

"Yeah, punk, go on ahead." He looked over at Taylor with a half-glare. "Y'all come right back the minute he's done, okay?"

One mock salute later, Taylor chirped out, "Yes sir! C'mon, Danny! Let's go play!"

Danny squirmed to be put down even though Penny didn't really seem like she wanted to. The minute his little feet hit the floor, he stumbled, and both adults jolted to try and catch him. Except they got there too late. Tay was standing there instead, one hand on the little guy's skinny elbow. He was still grinning.

"You okay?"

Nodding, Danny rasped, "Yep! Let's p'ay!"

The (weird) pair made their way upstairs much more slowly than Johnny would've thought possible, considering Tay was filled with fucking monster energy ninety percent of the time. As soon as they were both out of earshot, he sighed in relief and scrubbed his hands through his hair.

"Jesus _fucking _Christ, Em, I'm gonna kill both of you one day," he groaned. "I don't think my core can handle this shit anymore."

"Watch yer mouth!" Pops barked.

As Ember started cackling at him, Penny still glaring up the stairs without paying attention, Johnny wondered if there was _any _possibility of him making it back to Kitty with all his limbs intact. . .

"Ember! Are you finished ogling the new whelp yet?! I wish to hunt."

"Fuck off, Skulker, go on if you're _bored_ or something!"

"Would y'all kindly _stop swearin' in my house!_"

. . . nope.

Johnny slumped into the couch and silently wondered why the actual _fuck _he couldn't have a somewhat normal family.

(Still, he thought, he probably wouldn't trade them out if he had the chance.)

**A/N:**

**Okay, so it's been nearly a month, I'm in my second year of pharmacy school (officially) and everything is falling to shit. But! I persevered and managed to crank out another chapter for you guys before everything goes to hell in a handbasket. I'm so sorry that I haven't been able to update with the frequency that I desire. However, I'm very much a quality over quantity kind of person, and I didn't want to post something that didn't live up to the standards I had set myself in order to get it out faster.**

**That being said, this chapter was _supposed_ to cover Jazz and Vlad meeting for the first time, and it's not _quite _as refined as I would like. But this is the closest I figured it would get to perfect - no beta readers, we die like men - and it got away from me. **

**So. . . yeah, that didn't fucking happen.**

**Still, I thank you guys so much for your patience and support, and I can't wait to see what comments you leave for me in the reviews!**

**See you in the next one!**

**BlackRosePoetry**


	12. Chapter 12

Be Jazz Fenton.

Be six-years-old and sit in your hospital bed and wonder why Santa didn't give Danny back. Wonder why he couldn't make Mommy less sad and Daddy less angry and why you can't go home. Hold Bearbert Einstein tight and watch cartoons on the TV and remember to thank Officer Sanchez for grabbing your buddy when he visits.

Don't let anyone see you cry.

That's very important – you _do not _let them see you cry.

It is the day after New Year, and the nurses have been very nice. They sit with you when they can, ask if you need something or want a snack or a blanket. Nurse Miranda helps you brush your hair after bath-time, puts braids and ribbons in it, and she even lets you wear fuzzy socks. The doctors sometimes use lots of big words like "malnutrition" and "multiple contusions" and "hairline fractures" but she explains them the best she can.

It means that you didn't get enough food, so your body is very hungry. It means that you've got lots of bruises – even though some of them aren't from Mommy or Daddy. It means that some of your bones are broken, but only a _tiny_ bit, not like your heart, which feels like it's in big cracked pieces.

Sit in your bed and wish that things were better.

Try not to flinch when there's a knock at the door.

Mr. Turner walks in. He told you that he was a social worker, that he made sure that she was taken care of and that her house was going to be safe. That he was going to try and help her get better as best he could. Don't trust him.

Grown-ups, you're learning, can lie.

There's another man with him and he's _different_. You don't know how. But there's just something there. Something. . . weird? He's tall, but not quite as tall as Daddy, and he's got long silver hair. It's kind of pretty, pulled back in a ponytail. His beard isn't quite as pretty, a little darker grey, and his eyes are blue. But not like Danny's blue, the kind of blue that smiles and twinkles. They're cold. They don't smile, and the laugh in them is mean.

You don't know if you like this man.

Mr. Turner smiles again, and he sits in the chair closest to your bed. He's got a nice smile, even though his two front teeth are big.

"Hey, kiddo. How're you doing today?" He keeps his voice very quiet, and you like that.

Try to smile. Try not to be disappointed when it doesn't work. "I don't like the hospital. But the nurses are nice."

Mr. Turner looks kind of sad, but he doesn't tell you it's going to be okay. He doesn't tell you not to feel that way. He just says, "I know, Jazz. But you've got to stay here until the doctors say you're good to go, okay?"

Nod.

Try not to cry.

"I have someone here that wants to see you." He waves towards the other man. "This is your Uncle Vlad. He's who you're going to be staying with until your Mommy and Daddy are better. Do you remember him?"

No. No you don't. But Daddy used to talk about him sometimes, when he thought you and Danny were asleep. He always sounded so sad. Not like the Now-Sad, which is more mad-sad. But really sad.

Like you are.

Uncle Vlad is different, and it doesn't sit right in your tummy, but when he smiles it makes his eyes less scary. He steps up to the side of your bed and sits in the chair. Even how he moves is different. It reminds you of a shadow, very quiet and very quick and _almost _scary. Hold Bearbert a little tighter, try to curl up so he can't see how skinny you are, how small. He stares at the bruises on your arms. But it's almost like he's trying to solve a puzzle.

There isn't a bit of Uncle Vlad that feels _sorry_ for you, and you don't know how you feel about that.

"Hello, Jasmine." Uncle Vlad's voice is soft but deep. "I haven't seen you since you were very small. You've grown."

Except you're still small and still sad and still scared, weak in your scratchy hospital gown, and you want to curl up in a hole and wait for Danny to come home. Your hands are shaking.

Be Jazz Fenton.

And watch as this man who calls himself your uncle smiles a cold smile. Watch as he takes your hand and know that his skin is too hot. It's blistering your fingers, and everything _hurts_, but you won't cry. Mommy said don't cry, not now and not ever, so you _don't_. You just look at Uncle Vlad and try to figure out what's wrong in his eyes. What's wrong with his smile.

Everything is wrong in your life and you can't _figure it out_.

"Jazz. . . Mommy and Daddy call me Jazz." The words taste thick in your mouth, and they're trying to jumble like numbers on a page, but it's all you can do for now.

Uncle Vlad tilts his head and you feel like a puzzle piece. You don't quite fit, the edges all wrong, and they clack and click until something breaks. Then he smiles, and it's a little softer, not quite so scary. He squeezes your fingers then he lets go.

Your fingers are on fire but there's nothing wrong with the skin. They're pink with reddish nails, no blisters, nothing wrong. It's not right. Nothing's right anymore.

"Jazz it is then. Are you okay here in the hospital? I know they can be rather scary. I spent lots of time here when I was younger."

Really?

You watch him for a second and think. He's right. The hospital is scary. Because it smells like the lab, chemicals and sick people and something else that makes your stomach twist. And at night, when it's dark and too quiet, sometimes you dream of little boys with no eyes and white hair. You dream of a little boy named Danny, who doesn't scream but looks at you like his whole wide world is coming down and asks you why why why and you just. . .

Nod and say, "I get nightmares sometimes. And it smells."

Uncle Vlad nods, then looks at Bearbert for a second. "Does your friend here help? Nightmares can be scary, but sometimes it's nice to have a friend."

Bearbert used to help. He used to help her sleep through nightmares, used to be her only friend. And he used to help _Danny_ with his nightmares, on the nights when he came in with big tears and snot on his cheeks.

But there is no Danny and Mommy hates you and Daddy is angry.

There is no help with these nightmares.

So you shake your head and say, "Bearbert can't chase away all the monsters. He's just a teddy."

You feel silly, admitting that you believe in monsters. But what else could that little boy be? The one with no eyes and your bubby's voice? What else could make Mommy hate you and Daddy so angry he puts bruises on your arms? Monsters ruin everything just like ghosts ruin everything. And Bearbert is your best snuggle-buddy but he's fluffy and soft. He isn't meant to protect you from monsters with claws and teeth and no eyes.

Uncle Vlad nods like he understands. And you think he might. "Monsters are frightening, too, _milaya_. But, if I remember correctly, you should be ready to leave the hospital very soon. Isn't that right, Mr. Turner?"

He turns, and then his eyes are very blue. Almost too blue. Bright and hard and like ice in his head, and you realize that Mr. Turner is watching very carefully.

Nodding, Mr. Turner kind of smiles. "He's right, Jazz. You'll be out of here before you know it."

Watch him. Know something is different.

You're going and living with Uncle Vlad. Mr. Turner told you this before. And when he left, Dr. Chang made sure that your IV tubes were clear, that you weren't hungry.

And then you were alone.

Just like always.

It's the same.

"I want to go home. I want my bubby back."

They leave your mouth before you can stop them, and the words make Mr. Turner's smile disappear. And Uncle Vlad leans in close, his eyes very serious. Something cold runs down your back. You feel like a bug. A fat, ugly, slimy bug that got stuck under a magnifying glass.

"You can't go home just yet, Jazz. There are many things that your parents need to work on before that can happen." Uncle Vlad's voice is so quiet, so soft, but there's something hard at the edges you don't like. "But I promise that everything will be fine. No one will ever hurt you again."

He can't promise that.

He can't promise that, and you know it. Because even though you are very small and very weak and _so_ tired, you can see there's something wrong in his eyes. There's something wrong about all of this, and you can't understand _why_.

But there will always be people who hurt.

And you're starting to realize that grown-ups sometimes tell the biggest lies.

Be Jazz Fenton.

Talk with your Uncle Vlad for a little while longer. Listen as he tells you which foods are good and how to get the best Jell-O. Watch your cartoons for a bit and listen as he talks about his house, about how you will have a big bedroom. How you can have whatever toys you want and how they will decorate it in whatever way you want. Try to ignore the big pit in the middle of your stomach.

Notice how Mr. Turner doesn't talk the whole time, even though he normally does all the talking.

Wave goodbye when it's time to leave. Don't talk when Nurse Miranda helps you with your bath, just sit quiet. Listen to her chatter. Don't flinch when she pulls your hair too hard. She doesn't mean it, not like Mommy or Paulina do, so it's not nice to make her feel bad.

She helps you put on the hospital pjs like always and sits on the edge of your bed, fluffs your pillows and smiles. It's a sad smile. You wish adults would stop sad-smiling at you. You wish they would smile at you like Dash does, like you're normal and happy and something to be happy about. Don't say that, though. It'll make everything worse.

Smile back. Ignore how it pulls at the edge of your lips.

Nurse Miranda brushes her hand over the top of your head. "Are you ready for bed, sweetie?"

No. You're not. The nightmares are waiting for you.

"Yes, ma'am."

Her smile gets sadder for a second. Then it brightens, happier, and she leans in close. "Can you keep a secret from the other nurses?"

_Can you keep a secret Jazz? Don't tell them anything Jazz. It was a ghost, Jazz. Nothing is wrong, Jazz. Keep the secret keep the secret keep the secret don't open your mouth_

Nod and hug Bearbert tighter to your chest.

"We got a call from one of your friends from school today. He and his Daddy are going to come visit you tomorrow. Doesn't that sound fun?"

Feel your heart skip, do a happy dance, and whisper, "Is it Dash? Dash is coming?"

Nurse Miranda nods, grinning, and you can't help it. Hug her tightly around the neck and listen as she chuckles a little. She smells good. Like honey and fresh laundry. Don't cry. Be happy even though you're sad, and laugh even though you feel like crying, and be certain Dash won't let you down even though everything else is a confusing mess.

Be Jazz Fenton.

Hug your Bearbert close and whisper "thank you" to Santa, even though your Christmas present was late.

Go to sleep.

Try not to dream.

~*O*~

Bertrand is old.

Far older than he lets on. So old, in fact, that Bertrand is a chosen name, not the human one he arrived with. He is ancient, a form made over twelve hundred years ago, swirling with ectoplasm and morphing at will. He feeds on misery and he feasts on bones, watches the years roll by with a grin that makes his fangs run slick with saliva. There are many who fear him. Hundreds. _Thousands_.

And there is one who knows him, who fears him more than any other.

She's beautiful. She's broken. She's worthless.

_She's his. _

Bertrand is over twelve-hundred years old and knows how to slip through the cracks. He keeps to the shadows because the shadows are friends, keep all the dark creeping things safe in their hovels and leaves the monsters free to roam. Bertrand knows these monsters. Takes care of them. Appreciates how they do him favors and cashes those in when he sees fit. It's funny, really, watching the others scramble to make sense of their chaos when all they need do is _be_.

Chaos is energy and power and life and they don't see that.

Bertrand does.

He growls at a crawling beast, small and angled. It scurries away, leaves him to his work. Bertrand returns his attention to what is his, the _kind_ who formed in his lair and whom he molded in his image. So angry. So confident. So spirited and intelligent and _his_. Sometimes, the little one strays, returns to what she once was when he first found her. Gullible, broken, intelligent, naive.

Sometimes, the little one has to hurt.

Pain is a tool. Bertrand wields it with aplomb.

As he watches, what is his picks up a boy, who reeks of agony. Emotional, physical, mental. He can _taste_ it. It's like a deep rich wine, oaky and aged. Bertrand watches. He observes. He waits.

Gods, but he is hungry.

The little one is bandaged, bruises fading, but he can see the marks lingering in her eyes. It's in the way they dart to each corner, the way she clings tight to the child. It's in the way she gravitates to that _insipid_ fucking warden, who has the audacity to be offended by his discipline. His girl is _weak_. He's making her _stronger_. Surely a man worth his salt would know this?

But the warden is not a man worth his salt.

Bertrand watches.

Bertrand waits.

The boy without eyes nuzzles into his little one, plays with her hair, and she holds him like a precious thing. She's attached. He can taste it. The anger surges forward and Bertrand feels his tail lash. Ectoplasm and lightning, energy given matter. Shadows roll in time. Monsters cackle, chitter, crow.

Watch.

Wait.

The warden feeds the pair, lingers too near what is _his_, and Bertrand feels his fangs grow long. Anger poisons his heart and he becomes the great serpent. Not like the dragon-children, with their burning hearts and mercurial tempers. He is cold. He is calculated. He is the blizzard and ice and bitter sea-cold.

Bertrand was once named Calder, for the cold rough waters. Though he goes by another, his true name sits deep in his breast, remains near what was once his heart.

He watches.

His little one glances into his eyes, and he smiles.

Sometimes, lessons require patience.

~*O*~

Penelope woke up to the feeling of her arms sticking to Danny's comforter, dried ectoplasm pulling on the edges of her wounds, and had to work down a panic attack for a solid five minutes. She was ready to bolt, ready to puke, skin slick with sweat and body clawing for any sort of purchase on reality.

Bertrand had gotten a bite out of her, gotten a taste.

But not her boy. Never her boy.

Penelope beat the fear back with a stick and set it on fire in her mind. Set fire to _everything_. The walls, the bed, the floor. The monster who'd named itself Bertrand, who crept through the dark spaces with his rattling breaths and his dripping teeth. Who waited to swallow everything she cared about whole and digest it slowly. . .

Penelope gagged and rolled away from Danny.

Don't be sick.

_Don't you dare be sick._

Too hot. It was like a furnace in here.

Penelope scrambled to get out of the bed, wrenched herself from the blankets as fast as she could without waking Danny. She landed on the ground with a thump, gasping for breath. She scrubbed at her face, smearing at leftover makeup but removing the remnants of cold sweat from her skin.

It was sweat. Not saliva. _Sweat_.

Bertrand hadn't taken a bite out of her.

Her stomach heaved again. Don't be sick. Do NOT be sick.

Danny whimpered in his sleep, shivering a little bit as the air bit into his skin, and she froze. It broke through the fear. Through the panic. Penelope took a deep breath and held it. Her teeth were chattering. Was she cold now? She couldn't stop shivering. There was ectoplasm leaking down her forearms. The scabs had busted.

Penelope moved to the bunk. Quiet, always quiet. Danny didn't like loud noises.

He was still sleeping, face contorted in a frown. Gently, Penelope tucked the blankets around him. Smoothed a hand over his forehead. Tuck the blanket, brush his cheek, kiss his forehead. Cool like always. No fever. No blood.

Bertrand hadn't gotten a taste.

He _hadn't_.

Penelope swallowed a thick wad of saliva. Stood up. Walked to the door and looked at the little clock by the nightlight. Five-fifteen in the morning. She'd slept four hours, maybe. Her fingers were still shaking. Her face hurt.

Fucking great.

She turned the handle, opened the door, closed it, breathed. Down the hall four steps. Into the bathroom. Light on, door closed. Another breath. It was sweat, not saliva. Claw-marks, not bites. He hadn't gotten a taste.

Penelope rummaged around in the medicine cabinet for a second. Grabbed the disinfectant, some gauze pads, bandage tape. Her forearms were still weeping, dirty from the blanket but scabbed over. Great – they'd bled overnight.

She'd have to be careful Danny didn't see the stains.

The mirror was staring at her with wide eyes. There was a bruise around her eye, huge and swollen and purple. There were broken blood vessels. A split in her lip. She looked pathetic.

_Forever pathetic, little piyavka. You should've listened. You should've known. You should've been better. _

Penelope ground her teeth and turned away. Opened the door, closed it, breathed. Then she floated down the stairs – fuck the rules, this was important – towards the kitchen. Danny didn't like the smell of antiseptic. He'd panic if she'd used the bathroom for this. She flipped the light on, kept quiet, and went to the sink.

The cuts were deep. They hadn't healed yet. This was going to hurt like a bitch.

Thank _God_.

She could only focus on one thing at a time. Pain usually overrode fear.

Penelope started scrubbing at the wounds under running water, hissing in agony. It burned. It hurt so _bad_.

Ah, agony, her dear old friend.

Eventually both arms were clean. There were no bits of fibers stuck in them, no ghost bugs or dirt. She just needed to pour the antiseptic and bandage. Simple. Painful, but simple. Her hands wouldn't quit shaking. She couldn't keep the bottle still.

"C'mon, Penelope," she muttered to herself, "it's just a couple of cuts. Quit being a fucking bitch-baby."

She poured the antiseptic. It burned like hellfire.

"Fucking _shit_!"

It _burned. _Oh, sweet baby Jesus, it was like molten iron being poured on her arms. Bertrand always made sure that his wounds hurt the worst to clean, to heal, to _be_. She didn't know how, but she was somewhat grateful for the pain. She could focus on pain.

Pain was a friend.

She and pain were pals.

"What in the name of _Jesus Christ_ happened to you?!"

Penelope whirled, ectoplasm dripping, sweating and panicking and looking for the sound of the voice. She'd been _quiet_. She'd been _good_. How had he found her?! This wasn't supposed to happen. Nope. Not now. Not here.

Bertrand had wanted a taste and he'd _tried _for it and now Walker _knew_. . .

Her stomach heaved and she snarled. "What the _fuck_, Walker?! Why the shit are you even down here?!"

Anger was good.

Anger she could work with.

Better than panic and the feeling of saliva dripping down the back of her neck, hot breath on her face and the smell of decay all around. It was _sweat_, dammit, get it together.

Walker looked like he couldn't decide whether to be furious or really fucking concerned, and something about that was kind of funny. He was still dressed in his pajamas – his favorite ones, with the red-on-blue plaid bottoms and black tank – but his hair was wet. It kept dripping into his eyes, too wide and entirely focused on her.

Why was he so focused on her?

He crossed the room in about two steps – holy shit, since when was he so fucking _tall_? – and stepped into her bubble. Uncool, fuckhead. The bubble was sacred. One did not simply invade the bubble unless she made it so. Her hands grasped at the dripping green to keep it away. Keep it hidden.

It wasn't working.

"What happened?!"

Bertrand was hungry so he wanted to take a big bite, but she hooked his claws instead.

But that wouldn't go over well. Hold onto the anger, Penny, it's better in the long-run. Work with it. Focus. You can do this.

"It's nothing." She was lying, badly, because she couldn't keep looking him in the eye like this. "Just had a bit of an accident, that's all."

Walker swelled, jaw clenched, taller than ever. "An accident?! And accident that gave you a shiner the size'a Dallas an' sliced you up like a Christmas ham?!" He was loud, too loud, why loud? "Jesus, sugar don' gimme that!"

Away, away, get away, too loud.

Penelope felt the fear clawing back in, chewing at her stomach and throat. She set it on fire again. But that didn't stop the flinch. Her grip tightened on her forearms. Pain, pain, pain, focus on the pain. So much better.

Walker looked like he'd been slapped. Deflated a bit and sighed. "Alright, alright. 'm sorry. Didn' mean ta yell. Let's get'cha cleaned up 'fore Danny rolls around. Can't go scarin' 'im."

His accent got thicker when he was stressed or tired. She'd noticed that. And he was always focused on Danny. That made him a little more tolerable, at least. Even though he was still a fucking prick.

Penelope glared at the wounds, focused on the pain. She didn't want to look him in the eyes. Not when they looked at her like _that_. Like she didn't deserve this for being a fucking moron. Because she did. She did deserve this.

Her jaw clenched. Penelope turned the water back on, made it hot and kept scrubbing. Focused on the pain and ignored how gentle Walker was as he took the antiseptic towel from her. How he took her wrist like it was made of glass. How he dabbed at each gash instead of scrubbed and asked periodically if she was okay and, _fuck_, this was not how this was supposed to go. She couldn't handle this.

Not like this.

"Jesus, Pen, who did this to you?"

Walker sounded disgusted. Like he couldn't believe it.

Sometimes, Penelope couldn't believe it either.

She looked up and caught his eye. They were so. . . _honest_. God, when was the last time someone else had bothered to look so honestly at her? He was a hard-nosed, rule-obsessed asshole, but Walker was also the most stubborn, honest son of a bitch she'd ever met and that _burned_.

It burned because she could handle liars. Could handle thieves and psychopaths and miserable narcissistic bastards. But honesty was a foreign animal, one with sharp teeth and soft fur and she just _couldn't _figure out what the fuck to do with it. Couldn't trust it because no one ever meant it, right? Honesty was the perfect way to get something _right_?

Wasn't that just pathetic?

"Why the hell do you care?" Her voice wasn't shaking even though her stomach was doing backflips. "The bruise'll be gone by the time Danny wakes up, and I can cover these with bandages. I wouldn't let him see. You know better than to think that."

He _did_.

Danny was her boy. _Her_ boy. She wouldn't do that anymore than he would break one of his precious rules. Penelope focused on the burn in her arms and the ache in her face. It took away from the kicked-dog expression on Walker's. His grip tightened for a fraction of a second. The muscles in his shoulders were bunched, knotted and cording like steel-cable.

She'd struck a nerve.

"Do y'all really think 'm that shallow?" He voice was a rumble, thunder and lions and landslides. "That I don' care that someone beat ya silly? You're a sassy pain in my rear with a filthy mouth, sugar, but I ain't about ta sit by an' let someone beat the fire outta ya when 'm not lookin'."

Sugar – why did he always call her "sugar?" She was about as far from sweet as it got.

But. . . he had a _name_ for her. And it didn't make her sick to her stomach. Not like _piyavka_ or _dýrr _or Penny darling. The ones meant to belittle and mock and degrade, that spilled over her like ink and left a stain.

He just. . . she didn't. . .

Penelope swallowed the lump in her throat and tried to fight down the burning in her eyes. She was so _tired_. Walker broke the stare-down first. He looked back down to finish bandaging her arms. The callouses on his fingertips made goosebumps rush down her arms, but he wasn't hurting her. Never rough or too firm, grip always light. For such a big man, he managed to be less of a bull on a rampage than she suspected.

When he was done, Walker pushed her towards the table. "Sit down an' I'll pour ya a drink. You're shakin' an' those've gotta hurt. It'll take the edge off."

. . . was she still shaking?

Penelope kept her mouth shut. Sat at the table picking at the edges of her bandages. They burned, still, deep and heavy and aching. She could hear Walker cleaning up her mess, a thick wad of saliva building in her throat at the thought of the ectoplasm that was staining the floors, the counters, the sink. This shouldn't have happened.

But it did.

Then there was a tumbler in her face, a finger of whiskey in the bottom. "Here. Sip it slow – don' want a repeat of last time."

Fucker.

Penelope glared at him as much as she could, trying desperately to hold on to whatever anger she could muster. It was difficult. But she took a sip, relished the burn in her throat as opposed to the burn in her limbs, and tried to ignore the way her fingers trembled on the glass. Walker was staring.

His expression darkened the longer he looked, twisting into something terrible in its concern.

He was _staring _and she just _could not_ do this right now.

She snapped.

"Would you quit _staring _at me?! I know I look like shit. You don't have to paint a fucking billboard on my forehead."

Walker blinked and his expression darkened further. His jaw clenched. She'd noticed that tic before – it meant he was furious, but trying to hold his temper. "Spectra, you got _handprints_ on yer _neck_! Forgive me fer bein' old-fashioned, but I grew up thinkin' it wasn' right to beat a woman senseless."

Old-fashioned. Right. He was a jackass, but also kind of, sort of a decent guy.

"Yeah, well, not everyone seems to have gotten that memo." Penelope was nervous and in pain and pissed off, nails toying with her bandages and body shifting without meaning to. "It's nothing, really. I'm a big girl, can get drunk and put on bandages all by myself next time."

Walker stared some more. It was difficult to read his expression. But she could feel his frustration, his anger. It was pouring off him in waves and smacked her in the face. He really needed to work on not feeling things so strongly.

"Hon, do ya really think it's okay for someone ta do this to you?"

His voice was quiet, without a rumble, and Penelope felt her stomach twist. She glared at him with all the heat she could muster.

_Yes_.

"No. I don't."

_I deserve all of this, every single bit of it_.

"But it's not like I can really _do_ anything about it. So here the fuck we are."

Walker growled, lip curled over his canines, and went for the automatic response she was looking for. "Watch yer mouth." But then he went and fucked it up. "An' what d'ya mean ya 'can't do anything about it?' I know you ain't weak; fight back! Or call me fer backup!"

He. . . he didn't think she was weak? Walker had been steamrolling along for a _month_ now, pushing her buttons as often as he could, but he didn't think she was weak for caving? What kind of fucked-up bullshit head-game was he playing?!

Penelope threw the mask down with a clang. Lock it tight, don't let him see.

"I just couldn't, okay? Drop it."

_Drop it, drop it, drop it, don't look closer, please. _

Walker's eyes were glowing, furious, and he snarled. "That ain't gonna fly an' y'all know it! What. Happened?"

Penelope felt the anxiety explode, ripping at her skin and clawing at her throat, and it came flying out her mouth. She slammed the tumbler down, hoped it would shatter. It didn't. The only thing that shattered was whatever composure she'd possessed.

"HE COULD'VE HURT DANNY, OKAY?! IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT TO FUCKING KNOW?! THAT I'M A DUMBASS AND CAN'T EVEN PROTECT A LITTLE BOY RIGHT?!"

She couldn't protect him then and she couldn't protect him now and, _shit_, she was so fucking stupid. Danny was a little boy, her boy, and Bertrand was _hungry_. How was she supposed to keep her kid safe from monsters when she was indebted to one?

Tears kept burning at her eyes, heat pooling in her skin as it crawled, and Penelope couldn't entirely keep her breathing under control. It hurt. Everything hurt.

Including the way Walker was looking at her.

"Is that. . . is that what you think? That you gotta get _beaten_ to protect Danny from some. . . _waste_ who would do this to you?" His voice was hoarse, rasping over her eardrums, and it _hurt_.

Because she knew the answer, and it wasn't pretty.

"Jesus, Pen! What did they even _say_?! I would'a come in a sec if you'd a jus' called me!"

She was still crying, which was pathetic. And even more pathetic was that she knew he was telling the truth. Walker wasn't exactly her best friend – did she even have those anymore? – but he would've come if she'd called. Without question. He would've helped.

But. . .

"He didn't have to say anything. I know him. He'd break Danny. And he wouldn't even bat an eye."

God, she sounded pathetic. She _was _pathetic.

Walker looked like he was torn between breaking something and being afraid. "How did Bertrand even _get here_?"

That was the thing. She didn't fucking _know_. And that made her core freeze in her chest, hopeless and angry. She couldn't look at Walker. Instead, Penelope dropped her head into her hands. Tried to breathe.

"I have no fucking clue how Bertrand does _anything_. But it was better to let him hurt me. Because then he was focused on _me_, not Danny. I can take it – I don't think Danny can."

Walker was staring again.

She could feel his eyes on the back of her neck.

What she hadn't counted on was hearing the lump in his throat.

"Hon, you shouldn' hafta take it. _Nobody_ should get tossed around like he did you."

This was the same man who'd threatened to lock her in solitary confinement for a thousand years. This was the same man who called her a sassy pain in his rear. This was a man who hated chaos, who hated swearing, who hated anything that didn't conform the way he formulated his rules. And he _cared_. It didn't make any sense. How the _hell_. . .?

Penelope felt her breath catch in her chest, choked down the sob. Slowly, because she didn't want to overwhelm herself, she looked up at him. He looked so _concerned. _What the actual fuck? And why?

"I was sitting watching Danny, and he was just _there_." Maybe if she explained, he'd see she wasn't worth it. "I didn't even hear him get in. How could I not have heard him get in?"

How could she have not known?

Not seen.

Bertrand was always hungry, always wanted another bite. S

She should've fucking _known better_.

"Now you stop that." It was a growl, but a soft one, like he didn't want to scare her off. "It ain't yer fault he got in. Nothin' 'bout this is your fault. Jus' _tell me_ next time. I promise, he ain't gonna touch you again. Not if I got somethin' to say 'bout it."

Walker still didn't blame her. He. . . _he didn't blame her_. And he wanted to protect her. What the fuck? Penelope stared at him. She couldn't stop the tears rushing over her cheeks. Fucking stupid stress reactions.

"You can't promise me that."

Promises like that only made shit worse.

Except Walker didn't seem to realize that, because he set his jaw and glared, eyes bright. "The heck I can't! You watch me."

More tears. Faster. Hotter. Penelope couldn't seem to make them stop.

Then Walker shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Aww, c'mon, sugar! I ain't good at dealin' with cryin', makes m' skin itch."

It _almost_ made her laugh.

Penelope chose to scrub at her eyes and lie instead. Things were easier that way. "I'm not _crying_, asshole. My eyes are watering because my arms burn like a motherfucker."

She caught him grinning at her through the film of tears. "Watch yer mouth. Danny'll be up in a bit."

"Fucking bite me."

Walker _laughed_. He actually fucking laughed, and it made her stomach do a flip that had nothing to do with anxiety. Jackasses like him weren't allowed to have stupid sexy laughs. It wasn't right.

"What 'm I gonna do with you? 's like everythin' I say goes in one ear an' out the other."

Instinct ruled the next motion. Penelope reached out and punched him in the shoulder. _Hard_. Walker flinched just a little, but that was probably more reflex than anything. It was like slamming her fist into a wall. Jesus, how did he even _get_ muscles like that? He didn't even work out!

But it somehow managed to make her smile, so whatever.

Walker, it seemed, did a lot of things without thinking of the implications. He reached out and brushed the tears off her cheeks. The callouses on his thumbs rasped against her skin. Too uncomfortable to be familiar, too pleasing to be offensive. When he was done, Walker smiled and gently tapped her on the chin.

"Anyone ever tell you you're an asshole, Tex?"

. . . that wasn't what she had meant to say, but it would do because it was less embarrassing.

Walker laughed again. Okay, it was more of a snort. Still. . . "Please – I hear that at _least _four times a day, sugar. An' I ain't been to the prison in nearly a month."

Sugar. The nickname used to annoy her a lot more.

He stood and grabbed her tumbler, forgotten on the tabletop. It was now or never. Before she could lose her nerve, Penelope reached out and grabbed his wrist. She squeezed it gently, avoiding eye-contact.

"Thank you, Walker."

God, it burned.

For a second, he didn't say anything. It seemed like he was trying to find words. Then, Penelope caught Walker's grin in the corner of her eye. "You're welcome, Pen. But tell me somethin' – did that hurt? Sounded like it did."

This time, it wasn't a reflex that made Penelope slam her fist into his bicep. It was her pride. "Fuck off! I'm trying to thank you like a normal person!"

That was what people did, right? Thank others for not thinking they were a fuck-up?

The grin on Walker's stupid face never fell, even as he rubbed at the spot she'd hit. "There ain't _nobody_ that's gonna believe that. But like I said, you're welcome." He made a vague gesture towards the door. "Y'all might wanna get back up there. Danny'll work 'imself up if he wakes up an' you ain't there."

Danny was pretty attached at this point. Especially when he was sleepy or just waking up. He wanted her there, holding him or close enough to touch. They'd made the mistake of letting him wake up on his own once. It'd taken half an hour to get him calmed down.

Penelope nodded. "I'll be down with him in a little while. Are you making pancakes again?"

Pancakes were Danny's favorite. They probably always would be, now that his stomach had gotten re-accustomed to eating regular food.

That, and Walker spoiled the shit out of him.

"Either that or French toast." The warden shrugged. "You got a preference? Since we're both up, I figured we could have an early breakfast. 's not like we ain't got time."

Dammit, he was being nice again. He _knew _she liked French toast better than pancakes. He was giving her a choice. Stupid Walker, being all sweet and shit. Penelope thought for a second, then made her decision with a shrug.

"I like French toast better, but I'm pretty sure Danny would rather eat pancakes because _someone _spoils him and makes shapes."

Walker scowled, scrubbing the glass she'd used with more force than was necessary. "I do not _spoil_ him! Jus' 'cause I'm good at makin' Mickey Mouse pancakes don' mean I do it _every_ time."

Denial was more than just a river in Egypt. Penelope shot him a look, shoulders slumped a bit. "You made him an _actual_ train last week. With bacon tracks. And _steam_."

Was that a _blush_ she spotted? It couldn't be. Walker was shrugging her off with a _blush_. Now she'd seen everything.

"He's had a rough go of it. Figured if he wanted a train, I should give 'im a train. That ain't spoilin' – that's just bein' decent."

Penelope didn't know whether to laugh at the logic or coo over it. Jesus, he was such a _dad_ sometimes. Still, she couldn't afford to lose anymore face, not when he'd seen her crying like a bitch. So she rolled her eyes at him. "God forbid someone accuse you of being the soft parent, Tex."

Which he was.

For someone who loved rules so much, he was shit at enforcing them with Danny. Other than the routine, which they'd managed to stick to like glue.

Walker's blush darkened, and Penelope took an obscene amount of satisfaction in that. "Would you get on?! 'm tryin' ta get yer French toast together, an' I can't do that if someone's standin' there sassin' me!"

But sassing him was her favorite pastime. . . . "Whatever, cowboy. I'm going to wake him up and get him dressed. Half an hour good?" She was grinning.

Why was she grinning?

Walker glanced at the clock, noted the time, and nodded. "Yeah. Shouldn't take much longer 'n that."

Penelope chuckled and moved to leave. It was a dull throb in her forearms that made her pause, turn back to face Walker. "Does my face still look like a poster for Haven House? I don't want to go up there if I'm just going to traumatize him the minute he opens his eyes."

For a second, he scrutinized her, eyes suddenly too serious. Penelope felt small, but she refused to let it show. Walker finally dropped his gaze back to the kitchen cabinets, rummaging through them way too intently.

"No. You ain't gonna traumatize him when he wakes up."

Something in Walker's eyes told her that he was going to traumatize someone else, though. Penelope wasn't quite sure what to make of that. She managed another smile and bolted. Up the stairs, down the hall, into Danny's bedroom.

The red night-light still gave her chills. But Danny was still curled up under his blankets, sleeping and relaxed and precious. Penelope felt her shoulders relax a little bit. She smiled and tip-toed over to him, brushing her hand through his hair. Danny leaned into the touch, grumbling in his sleep. The smile on her face widened again.

Gently, Penelope disentangled the little boy from his blankets, making sure to hide the ectoplasm stains from him. "Danny. Wake up, sleepyhead!"

Danny grumbled for a second, glowing ectoplasm pits peeking up at her from beneath his lids. Penelope just rubbed his back and talked to him, voice low. "Come on, baby. Wake up. Walker's making French toast. Doesn't that sound good?"

Stretching, yawning, Danny finally opened his eyes all the way. And then he looked up at her.

And he _smiled_.

"Good m'rnin', Pen!"

Penelope scooped his little body up and held him tight, relished the way he snuggled into her neck. He smelled like raspberries, like laundry soap, like _home_. His fingers were twisting in her hair, thin arms wrapped tight around her neck. She couldn't help but press a hard kiss to the side of his head.

"Let's get ready for breakfast, baby." Somehow, her voice didn't shake.

"Oh-kay!"

Danny kept toying with her hair, giggling and talking as she made her way around the room, getting his clothes ready for the day. He'd gotten so much better. And Bertrand. . .

He'd claw at his little boy and toy with his little mind, chew him between razor-fangs until there was nothing left but a shredded corpse that was once a baby.

_Her _baby.

_Her _boy.

_Hers__._

Penelope smiled at Danny, kissed him on the nose, and made another promise.

This one wouldn't be broken.

**A/N: **

**Holy shit. It's been another month. And I want to die. **

**BUT!  
**

**Here is a chapter! It is long. And broken. But good. . . still good. Right? Maybe? Please, for the love of Christ, tell me it's as depressing as my life has been. Initially, I was going to forward to Danny and Taylor playing together, maybe show Jazz and Dash's interaction. But I figured that the last couple of chapters had been kinda somewhat fluffy. So I had to go with the angst. **

**That, and this monster is somewhere in the range of 7,000 words long. I wasn't about to add more. **

**So please let me know what you think! I may be kind of slow adding to this moving forward. However, I do plan on starting like a mini-fic series over on Ao3, as well doing a couple of character profiles, maybe some mood boards. It's all very vague and up in the air but, rest assured, there WILL be more content!**

**Thank you so much for all of your wonderful comments and support, and I hope to see you in the next one!**


	13. Chapter 13

danny isn't quite sure what to make of taylor just yet.

he's never had a big kid be his friend before, mostly 'cause a lot of the big kids were mean to jazzy, so he didn't want to be their friends anyway. but taylor is nice and he doesn't get mad when danny needs help climbing the stairs, just smiles and holds his elbow tight, promises that he won't fall. it reminds him of jazz, who would give him bearbert when he was sad and let him sleep in her bed when he had nightmares and held his hand at the bus-stop so the big kids didn't knock him over. but taylor _isn't _like jazzy either.

it leaves a funny feeling in danny's tummy, thinking about jazzy when she isn't here.

when they get to the stairs, taylor grins and tugs his hand, but it isn't mean pulling. it's _excited_. he's happy to play with danny and he doesn't really understand because _no one_ should be excited to play with a bad boy like him. except mr. walker and ms. penny say that he isn't a bad boy, that mommy and daddy were lying, so maybe that's why taylor wants to play? maybe that's why he can eat food and wear nice clothes and sleep in warm beds? because he isn't a bad boy?

"Danny? Are you okay?"

danny jumps, jerks, but then he remembers taylor is small like him. he won't hurt him. mr. walker promised. danny tries to smile even though it still feels wrong, like when mommy used to use the wrong soap on his clothes, and taylor looks relieved, his shoulders all loose and floppy. the smile is back, and it kind of reminds danny of tucker's golden-retriever puppy, matrix. happy and warm and like it could make the whole world bright again. it might be the way his teeth poke out of his lips, though, that makes it crooked.

he nods, says, _i'm okay_, and taylor squeezes his hand.

"Alright, let's go play!"

they walk down the hall very slow because danny's legs don't always want to work right. sometimes they go wobbly and sometimes they go _smoky_, like they're trying to fade away, and danny hates it when they do that. one time, they fell through the floor and he got really scared, breathing too hard and screaming and he got them pulled out before ms. penny came running in. he'd cried and cried and _cried,_ because what if she _found out_? would they hate him? would they hurt him? his heart said no but there's a mean voice in the back of his head that says _yes yes yes they would_.

but taylor doesn't seem to mind.

he makes sure danny is sitting in his favorite spot on the carpet and plops down next to him, grin still wide and hair all green and messy. danny's never seen someone with green hair before. it's kind of neat. like ember's hair, except it doesn't move on its own.

"Okay, Danny, what d'ya want to play?" taylor looks like he's trying not to bounce in place, to be good, and danny feels bad for him. "We can play rockets or cars or – ooh! I know! Let's play _pirates_! That's my favorite."

pirates? danny remembers a movie with pirates that came on tv once. mommy and daddy were in the lab, and he's not sure if he was supposed to have watched it, but it was scary. there were _zombies_ in it. scary skeletons. he'd had lots of nightmares. and taylor is getting louder, brighter, like he's exploding out of his skin and it makes his tummy do an odd flip because, no, he doesn't _think _taylor means to do it, but it's still scary.

danny scrunches up his face a bit and plays with his fingers. he doesn't want to say _no_. because then what if taylor gets mad or gets sad or doesn't want to play anymore? it'll be all his fault and that's not okay. he's trying to be a good boy, not a bad boy, so maybe he should just play pirates even though it sounds loud and hard and scary? taylor looks at him for a second and shrugs, takes off his coat and sits it on the bed. he's less big now, quieter and less bright.

"We don't have to play pirates, though. It's a little loud, and I know Papa said you don't like loud things. You pick, Danny."

he. . . he doesn't mind? danny can pick?

danny smiles again, and this time it doesn't feel stiff. it feels nice, warm, and danny wonders if this is what things are going to be like from now on, picking games and having people tell him it's okay to be scared, okay to be weird, _okay_.

_I'm going to break you, ghost, what did you do with danny, ghost, this is all your fault, not okay, hurt you break you bleed you, not my boy who are you why why why hurt yell not okay not okay bad bad bad_

he takes a big breath and it still catches in his chest, but not as bad, and he says, _can we play rockets?_

taylor nods, and his eyes are really bright, and danny thinks that smiling is a little easier now. he doesn't know how to be around people who aren't ms. penny and mr. walker yet because people are still scary, bad bad bad, but taylor seems nice even though sometimes he's too loud and too _much_, a lot of _person_? danny doesn't know what to really call it.

but they go over to the toy box anyway and pull out rockets, and danny hasn't really got to _play_ with someone else besides ms. penny since he got here. it's nice. taylor might be loud and bright and _much_ but he knows how to make the right noises and he listens when danny wants to explore the moon instead of saturn because _saturn's made of gas, tay, you can't walk on it!_

they play on the rug until danny feels his knees begin to burn and his grin is so wide that it stretches his face.

at first, their astronauts are explorers. they go out to find cool space-rocks and computer stuff and aliens that can be friends. they're like captain kirk except they don't kiss space princesses – girls have cooties, taylor explains – and the crew is made of humans and aliens too. danny wants to have mr. spock as his number one, who reminds him of jazzy and ms. penny because he thinks before he does things and is very quiet. taylor wants a captain like worf, who is big and strong and not afraid to fight _anyone_ because klingons are awesome.

they're too loud for danny now, and sometimes the thought of fighting makes his tummy hurt, but he's glad that it makes taylor happy.

taylor is telling him how his astronauts are going to fight a big group of space-monsters, the red paint on the side of his rocket shiny and new, and he jumps to his feet a little too fast. danny jumps, shrinks, tries to keep from crying or panicking or being a big baby because _he likes playing_ and he doesn't want to make taylor leave. but it's too fast, too much, he wants out out away and he holds his little blue shuttle so hard his fingers turn white.

then taylor plops down next to him. and he isn't smiling. he looks sad? kind of like ms. penny when he has an "attack" and then he holds up his hands real slow. touches danny on the shoulder even slower.

_break you beat you hurt you ghost ghost ghost bad break hurt please, don't, Mommy I'm sorry help me_

danny takes a deep breath and it sticks in his chest and it _hurts_, because his chest still feels so empty even though he's been with mr. walker and ms. penny for a long time, now, and he just wants things to be _better_? why can't things be better? why is he so scared hurt sad wrong mistake ghost bad? danny feels taylor take the shuttle after a second, but he's nice, it doesn't hurt, and then he rubs the big marks that the metal left behind, the ones that ache like his chest. they sit on the rug for a long time, taylor rubbing the marks on his fingers, and danny manages to gasp out _I'm sorry _even though he wants to cry but can't because tears don't work anymore. it's just that thick goopy stuff that sticks to his cheeks and makes ms. penny look sad.

taylor sits criss-cross applesauce and his face is serious. too serious.

"It's okay, Danny. You don't hafta be sorry!"

after a second, taylor grins, and he pulls off his pirate gloves. one of his hands is a lot like danny's except instead of being too small, too skinny, too white, it's chubby and the nails look a little green, just like his hair. the other one is _metal_. it's shiny and has plates to it, like a spaceship, and the knuckles on the fingers are different colors, big circles where they meet his hand.

taylor has a _robot hand_ and it's the coolest thing danny has ever seen _ever_.

"When I first came to the Zone, I was scared like you." taylor is quieter than he's ever been and that's a little sad but _oh my gosh a metal hand_. "I'd had a bad accident, and I didn't have an arm or a leg. Papa – I guess you call him Walker – told me that I never had to be scared as long as I was with him, 'cause he'd protect me. He even had someone make me my new arm and leg! they're pretty cool, huh?"

danny thinks he's smiling but it's so wide, splits his cheeks so hard that it almost hurts. hurts like the rest of him, like his head and his heart and his fingers and his bones, but this isn't the bad kind of hurt? it's hard to talk about, hard to wrap his mind around, but he reaches out and touches one metal finger, feels the metal is warm instead of cold and it buzzes like that feeling he gets when his feet slide on the carpet.

after a second, taylor turns his hand and the palm is up, the center glowing bright green and danny can feel the light on his cheeks. bright bright happy green, not like the green that stays in his bad dreams or the thick-sticky that sometimes leaks out of his eyes. it kind of hums. ms. penny sometimes does that when he wakes up from a bad dream and can't go back to sleep. mommy used to do it before break you hurt you ghost ghost ghost where's danny? he was a bad boy.

it tickles his fingers and taylor giggles. "Technus made them after I'd been here for. . . I dunno, three months? Somethin' like that – I'm not good at keeping track of time unless it's Christmas. But I guess what I'm trying to say is it'll get better. Maybe not fast, maybe not a whole lot at a time, but Papa promised it'd get better, and it did. You gotta believe that too, 'kay?"

danny's figuring out that it hurts, still, but it's not as bad anymore. he still doesn't like loud and he doesn't like fast and his body still doesn't always do what he wants it to why is his chest so cold? but that's okay?

it's nice, though.

meeting a big kid that doesn't think he's a baby.

but. . .

danny sits and traces the green circle with his finger and thinks about how long he's been with mr. walker and ms. penny. he thinks about how mr. walker always makes him his favorite foods and how they have pancakes with different shapes and fruit in them, even though the strawberries are purple here, and how he gets to ride in the crook of one arm. he thinks about how ms. penny talks to him and how they sit and read books and how she tucks him in every night with his favorite blankie. he thinks about how mr. walker sometimes sneaks him candy when he's having a bad day ("Don' tell on me, punk, Pen'll have my hide) and how ms. penny gives the best hugs and goodnight kisses and how sometimes she smells like mint instead of raspberries ("Goodnight, baby. Have sweet dreams, okay?") but that's okay because it's _her_.

danny doesn't know what he'd do without mr. walker and ms. penny and it's so _different _than what it was like with mommy and daddy, but not? it's _better_ because mommy and daddy never made train-pancakes with purple strawberries and they never told him bedtime stories or called him "punk" or "baby" or wrapped him in blankets like a tiny burrito.

mommy liked to call him "sweetie" when she was upstairs, but usually it was jazzy who tucked him in. and daddy was loud and said "Danny, my boy!" a lot, but he wasn't very good at remembering that little boys need food that isn't covered in green goo. they loved him until they didn't but sometimes danny thinks that maybe mommy and daddy weren't very good at being a mommy and daddy.

mommy, i'm danny, why don't you believe me? please mommy, i'm sorry, don't please please please

sometimes, when danny is being especially bad and asking questions, he thinks that he would like mr. walker and ms. penny to be his mommy and daddy. sometimes, he thinks they sort of are?

because when they kiss his forehead and give him baths and tellstories-goflying-makepancakes. . . .

it's like. . . having a mommy and daddy again but _better_.

taylor calls mr. walker "papa" and danny thinks. . .

_could i call him papa too?_

he's almost afraid to look up from the robot arm. danny swallows and feels the shivers run down his back again, the beafraid-don'tlook-hurtyou-badbadbad that beats against the inside of his head and it's horrible. but danny takes a deep breath and the ache helps him to stop being so scared.

he lifts his head, looks through his bangs because, holy crud, this is so _weird_. but danny looks at taylor and he's _grinning_, wide like it's going to break his face in two. his teeth are so big they glow bright white. it looks like he's buzzing in place, and danny doesn't think that he's ever seen a big-kid so excited before? at least, not about anything that he's ever done because danny is just a stupid baby, and most of the time big kids are ignoring him unless they're picking on jazzy.

if they're picking on jazzy, danny kicks them in the shins until they stop and look at him like he's annoying.

"I think Papa would _love _that!" taylor squeaks, and it's high-pitched like he's trying not to scream the words.

danny feels something break loose in his chest and it's _warm_, hot chocolate that sits in his heart instead of his tummy, and he can't stop smiling even though it makes his cheeks feel too tight and the cold never _really_ goes away.

then taylor looks confused, nose scrunched up like he's thinking real hard. "If you're gonna call him Papa, what're you gonna call Penelope? I know she's real important to you."

the cold returns and it's building in his guts, sinking through his bones until the guilt and the _badboybadboybadboy_ is pumping through his bones. danny didn't think of that. he didn't think about how ms. penny would feel if he called mr. walker 'papa' because he's a terrible boy, horrible and selfish and how could he just _not think about that?_ he loves ms. penny lots, so much sometimes it scares him because what if she doesn't really love him back? they really haven't known each other _that _long. but she's so _nice _and she does things that mommies should do, like give him hugs and kisses and tuck him in and tell him that he's a _good little boy_.

he's so _dumb_, a big dumb baby, and he shouldn't be allowed to call anyone mama or papa.

danny can't breathe.

he can't _breathe_.

there's a hand on his back and it's rubbing circles and somewhere deep underwater he can hear taylor talking to him, and he sounds scared, but danny can't hear anything but _whooshwhooshwhoosh _in his ears and he's shaking but his body won't move, like his arms and legs are filled with rocks. he can't see.

why can't he see?

everything hurts, so cold so cold so _heavy_ and somewhere taylor is yelling to someone.

dark.

cold.

can't move.

can't breathe.

someone talking. different voice. hands on his forehead, bigger and warm. ms. penny?

still can't move and it's so _cold_. why is it so cold? don't know. scared. dark. want mama. he's in the air, not on the floor, and his body jerks, twitches, but it still won't listen. hurts hurts hurts, scared, want mama, where's mama?!

someone's holding him. someone else is crying. they're soft and warm and smell like mint and raspberries. work arms, work, it's mama!

_mama, mama, mama, i'm sorry 'm bad, mama don't hate me, 'm sorry, don't hate me._

talking again. it's ms. penny's voice.

soft. pretty. safe.

"Shhh, baby, it's alright. I'm right here. You're just fine."

_mama, 'm sorry, don't hate me, please please please. . . . _

"No one hates you, sweetheart. Shhh, little love, deep breaths. Remember? Follow me."

deep breath. snuggle tight. don't cry.

'_m sorry, mama_.

"I've got you. I've got you."

_mama, 'm sorry_.

he's so cold. why is he so cold? it hurts hurts hurts and mama's talking to someone and she sounds real scared and he doesn't know what's going on anymore, why won't his arms and legs listen, and he hears someone else talking that might be papa.

everyone sounds so scared.

it's so _cold_.

it _hurts_.

danny thinks he might want to die now.

~*O*~

Be Jazz Fenton.

Wake up in the morning way earlier than you probably should and wait for the new nurse – her name is Becky, but sometimes you forget – to come in and check on you. Watch the clock tick-tick-tick on the wall. The big hand is at the top, and the little hand is straight below. The numbers are still jumbled, but you know that Mommy said the top is twelve and the bottom is six. So it's six in the morning. It's very early.

Tap your thumb on the mattress. Rub against the blankets – they're very scratchy – and then squeeze Bearbert as hard as you can. Think about turning on the tv. Remember that the nurses don't like it when you watch cartoons so early, how they tell you that you need to eat and need to drink lots of water and need to sleep because "your body is very tired, Jazz, and it needs time to get better." Instead of watching tv, roll over even though it pulls on the needles in your arms and watch out the window. It's very high up, not very pretty to look out sometimes, but you can see the sky.

It's dark.

It probably won't be light for a while.

You wish you could see the stars, but you're in the middle of _everything_, and there's so many lights here that you can't see anything but dark black sky and it makes you think of soot and monsters and little boys with no eyes. Don't think about the little boy.

He visits you when you sleep.

Lay and doze and play with Bearbert's ears because those are the parts that are softest, the bits that still remind you of Danny because _he _used to play with ears, liked to tug and pull on them when he was excited.

Be Jazz Fenton and remember you are excited even though you're so _tired_.

It's like a weight in your bones, pulling down until you slump back into the horrible pillows and fall back to sleep. The little boy is waiting for you. He sits in the dark and looks at you with those empty, horrible eyes and the green drips down, down, down, over his cheeks and chin and falls in big drops on the ground that you can't see. Sometimes, this little boy talks and he sounds like Danny he is Danny, Jazz and it makes you want to scream.

Sometimes, he doesn't say anything, just looks at you and his face is sad as the green drops down.

You think you might be going crazy.

Be Jazz Fenton.

Wake up again when a nurse puts a hand on your shoulder but try not to look as scared as you feel. It's just Nurse Becky. She's a lot younger than the others, even younger than Mommy, and she always tries to talk to you like a grown-up, not a baby. Her smile never reaches her eyes, though.

Sometimes, you hear her talking with Nurse Miranda in the hall. She talks about how Mommy and Daddy should get in big trouble and uses bad words that you'd get your mouth washed out with soap for.

Sometimes, when you're all alone and no one can tell you what to do, you think she's right.

"Good morning, sunshine!" Nurse Becky always calls you that. "Did you sleep well?"

Don't tell her the truth. Grown-ups always look at you funny when you tell them the truth, that weird mix of "I'm so sorry" and "you're so crazy" that makes your stomach knot up. It's easier to feel less-bad about lying than telling the truth and watching The Look come up. Instead, try to smile even though it doesn't quite fit and say, "Yes, ma'am."

Nurse Becky rolls her eyes and ruffles your hair. She doesn't like being called ma'am. You do it anyway. It's like a joke, but not.

She goes through the new morning routine that you've got. She takes her fingers and counts how many times your heart beats, listens to you breathe. She takes your blood pressure with the cuff-thingy that makes your fingertips tingle. Then she checks your bruises and makes sure that the medicine hanging in the bags by your bed is going through the tubes in your arms right.

It doesn't take super long, but it's boring and annoying and the needles itch.

When she's finished, watch as Nurse Becky smiles again and writes in her chart. Her scrubs are purple today, with little yellow bats. She's got a bow in her hair. You like that. You miss your bows.

"Alright, Miss Jazz, I'm all done here. Now it's time for the most important thing you will do _all day_." She's trying to look serious and it's not working. "Pick what you want for breakfast."

The hospital's food is gross, but you're not allowed to have anything outside of what they make for you. Well, some of the nurses bring you snacks and candy sometimes – Kyle even brings you _chocolate bars_ – but those don't really count. It's nice, but not the same. Still, they try, and Nurse Kelsey is really nice so you try not to disappoint her more than you already do.

Be Jazz Fenton.

Choose pancakes for breakfast because they were the only thing that Daddy could ever make right, even though he always put too much syrup on them. Wait in your bed with cartoons and Bearbert until the food cart comes by. It's in a yellow-plastic tray that smells bad, but when they open it up your pancakes are warm and they don't smell like ectoplasm, so that's good.

Eat them without complaining even though each bite is like cardboard covered in syrup.

Drink your milk.

It's not chocolate, not your favorite, but drink it anyway.

Look at the clock on the wall as the cartoons – it's _Rugrats_, this morning – keep rolling by. Don't pay attention, not really. There's too much going on in your head for that, too many questions and not enough answers. Too much missing Danny and Dash and Mommy and Daddy. Even though Danny isn't coming back he's dead, you know it, and you can't tell and Dash used to be mean and Mommy doesn't like you and Daddy always smells like that gross brown water he drinks.

Be Jazz Fenton.

And nearly fall out of bed when Dash comes running through the door, out of breath and hair flying, shoes squeaking too loud on the white, white floor. He's not smiling, his eyes too big for his face, and then his shoulders slump forward when he sees you. Watch as the smile you like best comes out. It's like sunshine and you feel tears well up even though, no, you're not supposed to, Mommy said you're not allowed to cry.

This is Dash, though.

He doesn't care when you cry.

Watch as Dash scrambles to your bed very carefully, how he rounds the bottom and comes up onto the side that doesn't have tubes and wires and everything that's stuck in your arm. He climbs in before anyone – not the nurses that come through the door or his daddy, who's big and tall and grumpy-looking – can tell him to stop. There are tears in your eyes, running down your cheeks.

You're not supposed to cry.

Dash wraps his arms around your shoulders real tight, as tight as you can stand, and buries his face in your braids. "Are you okay?! Dad says you got hurt!"

He's warm and he's hugging you so tight it hurts and he's _here_, with his hair falling everywhere and his shoes on the wrong feet. You don't really like princesses because you think that they're not very smart sometimes, but you wouldn't mind being one if your prince was like Dash.

Hug him back. Hold tight, so tight your fingers start to tingle, and your knuckles turn white. Bury your own face in the front of his shirt – it smells like cotton – as he rocks a little. Cry against him.

There's a hand on the back of your head, a little thumb running back and forth, and Dash is talking real quiet. "It's okay, Jazz. 'm gonna make it better. I dunno how, but I'm gonna make it better. You'll see. You're gonna be okay. I _promise_."

You can hear one of the nurses crying, too, and you think Dash's daddy is talking quietly to someone but it doesn't matter. Not really.

Dash is here and he says things are gonna be better.

That's all that matters.

Cry for a long time and then feel bad because there's stains on Dash's red Christmas sweater, the one with reindeer on the front. Watch as Dash shrugs his shoulders and snuggles back into the bed beside you.

He says, "That's okay. It's an ugly sweater anyways."

Sniffle. Wipe your eyes. "It's still your sweater. 'm sorry."

Dash grins and scratches the back of his head. "Nah! _I'm _sorry. You're the one stuck in the hospital." His nose scrunches up. "It smells like feet in here."

Giggle. Hiccup. "Yeah – I don't smell anything anymore. You get used to it."

Watch as he frowns and turns to look at his daddy. "Dad, is that right? Can you get used to the smell of feet?"

Mr. Baxter is a big man with hair that's blonde like Dash's and dark eyes. There's a scar over his eye, like a burn, but there's lines around his mouth. Maybe he smiles more than you think. He nods once. When he talks, his voice is deep and it rasps at the edges.

"Yeah, kiddo. You can. It's like when you stay the night at the firehouse and complain about the smell of beans."

Dash nods just as seriously. He looks back at you. "The firehouse smells like beans instead of feet, but it's still gross."

Be Jazz Fenton.

Laugh as your best friend in the whole wide world sits on your bed for _hours_. He and his daddy have brought you blankets and another stuffed animal – an elephant with soft ears – and a card that tells you to get better soon. Dash blushes when you kiss his cheek because this is the _best _Christmas present you could've gotten now that Santa isn't reading your letters anymore. The cartoons are still on, but no one is paying attention to them.

Dash sits by your side and holds your hand and you talk about what's going to happen now that you're not living with Mommy and Daddy anymore. Try to ignore how your fingers go cold when you think about Uncle Vlad and his too-blue eyes, the ones that aren't like Dash's, the ones that make your insides do funny twists because it's like being under a magnifying glass. Try to smile.

Know that it doesn't work because Dash's daddy puts a big hand on the top of your head, all rough with callouses, and frowns. "It's okay to be sad, kiddo. You've got every right to be. But you need to remember that we've got your back, okay?"

You don't know Dash's daddy very well. Not at all, really.

But his hands are warm, and he looks at you like you're _someone_, not like you're very sad or bad or a dirty bug.

Sniffle a little bit and wipe at your eyes. Nod and pretend the words don't hurt, like your stomach doesn't twist itself in knots and ache when you think about how nothing is okay anymore. How Mommy looks at you with cold eyes. How Daddy smacks you even though he doesn't mean it you think he might and his breath smells. How Danny hasn't come home yet.

How Danny hasn't been home in a _very_ long time.

Feel the way Dash wraps his fingers around yours. How he holds tight but not enough to hurt, not enough to leave marks in the way Mommy or Daddy or other kids would. Dash is warm and Dash is _nice_ and Dash is your _best friend_. You snuggle into his side and try to smile at his Daddy, who watches back with something funny in his blue eyes, and you can't quite place it.

That's okay.

You've still got Dash.

Be Jazz Fenton.

Hold tight to Dash's hand for the rest of the day. Watch cartoons. Snuggle your new elephant friend. You're so tired because sleep isn't your friend anymore. It's filled with little boys that have no eyes and the sound of Mommy screaming and too-blue eyes that look at you like you're a bug. But it's warm, here. You can hear the _thump-thump-thump_ of a heartbeat in Dash's chest, heavy and safe against your ear. An accidental lullaby.

Take another nap with your best friend. Wake up when his Daddy shakes you both awake, waving Mickey D's chicken nuggets under your nose. The nurses aren't looking. So you eat them with lots of barbecue sauce and a smile, thanking the man with a grumpy face who might not be so grumpy? He ruffles your hair and winks.

"Just don't tattle on me, kid."

Eat your nugs. Be content even if you're not quite happy and talk for _hours_. Talk about nothing. Talk about everything. See that Dash watches and listens with his very serious blue eyes. His hair is still messy and his clothes don't match and he dragged his daddy all the way here for _you_. It's amazing.

You've never had a friend who would do that for you.

"Jazz? Sweetheart, I'm sorry, but visiting hours are almost over. Your friend has to go home now."

Nurse Miranda doesn't mean to ruin everything, not really, but you can't help but hate her just a little bit. Hold tighter to Dash's hand, almost too tight. He doesn't complain. Just squeezes back 'cause he knows what it's like. How you don't like being alone, but you don't like people either, and how the numbers on a page can swim like letters and make you feel like an idiot.

Dash's daddy stands up. Stretches his arms and you can see the muscles there. Big and rough like his hands. He jerks his head towards the door.

"C'mon, brat. We'd better get you home before your mom has a conniption."

Dash squeezes your hand one more time. Looks at you with his Serious Eyes. "I'm comin' back. Everything's gonna be okay. I promise."

He can't promise you that.

No one can.

But it's sweet of him to say, so you smile and give him a big hug around the neck. Watch as he walks back over and holds his dad's hand. He waves, looks sad. His daddy smiles at you and that's sad, too. He winks once, lines all around his eyes and mouth, and then they're gone. All that's left is the smell of Dash, of Mickey D's, and a stuffed elephant with soft ears. Hold it tightly and bury your nose into it.

Don't cry anymore.

You're not allowed 'cause Nurse Miranda is watching.

She's talking, going through the night routine and giving you medicine and making sure you eat supper. But everything sounds so far away. Like it's not important. But it _is _and you wish your mind would understand that. They just don't, though.

You want Dash to come back.

Nurse Miranda leaves.

Be Jazz Fenton.

Know that everyone leaves.

Curl up around your elephant, stare at the walls, and go to sleep.

Wait for the little boy to show up.

Don't scream when he does – he doesn't like that.

~*O*~

Vlad would be the first person to admit that he knew next to nothing about small children. He wasn't one of those soft-hearted individuals meant to be swayed by the promise of big eyes and round, button noses and chubby cheeks. Children, he found, tended to be underfoot and obnoxious. Overly questioning.

Still, Jasmine was nothing like what he'd expected upon their first meeting.

Freezing droplets of rain pounded against the windows of his mansion, a discordant rhythm that he found soothing. Vlad swirled his glass of red wine thoughtfully. One hand fiddled idly with the hem of his pressed-wool trousers.

Mr. Turner had warned him that the girl would look. . . sickly, due to the condition they'd found her in. But instead of a little girl with a cold he received a too-thin doll of a human, staring up at him with a level of mistrust that he'd never encountered in another human. Well, perhaps another human outside of politics. The paperwork had stated that she was six. But she'd looked – oddly enough – both younger and older. Younger in that she was utterly _tiny_, small and dwarfed by the over-starched sheets of her bed and the hospital gown that swallowed her frame. Older in the look in her eyes, the way her thin brow creased in thought each time he spoke, the way she stiffened under his gaze.

Jasmine Fenton was _nothing_ like what he'd expected.

It was intriguing, in a sense.

He'd assumed Mr. Turner and the others were simply overzealous in their accusations against Maddie. Perhaps, however he might wish to deny it, there had been a bit of truth to their statements. There had been the remnants of bruises peeping out over the collar of that hideous gown, along her arms and collarbone. Jasmine's cheeks were near-hollow and her eyes were shadowed.

Those eyes, though. . . .

So much like her mother's.

Vlad took an appreciative sip of his wine. A 1941 Cheval Blanc. Rich and acidic and well worth the excessive prince tag. There was something soothing about a fine vintage enjoyed during a thunderstorm, even whilst one's thoughts were occupied by less than savory topics. There was a rush of air behind him, cold and bringing the smell of mildew.

A smile curved the billionaire's lips. "Ah, Bertrand! I was wondering when you'd return! I hope this means you have good news for me? I'd be. . . disappointed, if you'd showed up empty-handed."

He turned his smile to the shapeshifter, allowing his eyes to glow ruddy in the low light of his study. Bertrand was rather a monstrous creature, amorphous and reeking of ancient rage. The only features that remained consistent throughout his many transformations were the eyes. Bloody red and hungry.

Idly, Vlad wondered if red eyes were a trademark amongst more powerful ghosts or if they were merely a reflection of the personality. A rather remarkable physiological adaptation, to be sure, but not a very consistent one.

Bertrand inclined his head. Each movement rippled in his form like a tidal wave, bringing out different features as it traveled. A popping shoulder joint here, an abnormally gaunt cheekbone there. The creature's smoke-like hair rippled in such a way that Vlad could practically smell the gasoline and match, and a jagged, toothy grin responded to his query.

"I've found the key as you requested, Plasmius." Bertrand had a strange accent, lilting in a way that rang Scandinavian. "It rests near the edge of the Abyss, beyond Pandora's Lair. But it's heavily guarded by one of Pariah's creations. The Behemoth, as it's called. Powerful beast, massive, and far more intelligent than many give it credit for. I nearly got caught myself."

Vlad quirked an eyebrow. "You seem relatively unscathed to me, shapeshifter. I rather dislike it when my associates lie to me."

A low growl rumbled through the room, bringing with it the chill of an ocean storm. "I am ancient, _whelp_. There are many cracks and shadows to hide in. The Behemoth is clever, yes, but I more so. It did not see me slip away. You, however, should be careful. Rumors are beginning to float through the Zone. You just might catch unwanted attention if you don't tread lightly."

Another sip of wine. Vlad shrugged, relatively unconcerned, and flashed his fangs in a menacing grin. "I'm quite sure I can handle myself, Bertrand. But I thank you for the advice nonetheless. Now, you're sure it was the key that you saw? I cannot afford to make mistakes, not with the unexpected developments as of late."

The shadows rippled through his study, encroaching violently into his personal space. Vlad remained unconcerned – dominance displays and tantrums were not frightening in the least – and quirked a nonplussed brow at them. Bertrand moved closer to the fire, looming like a wraith in the dark. His teeth gleamed with saliva. His eyes gleamed with hunger.

"I do not make mistakes, _Plasmius_," Bertrand snarled, voice distorted in his pique. "The Key was there. All you need do is acquire it. And for that, you are on your own. I do not take it upon myself to volunteer for suicide missions. Besides, I have my own business to attend to besides being your lackey."

"Ah, yes! I'd heard that your little misery-weaver was captured by the warden. Curious, though, I would imagine she'd have returned to you by now. Walker _is _rather soft on red-heads, after all." Vlad practically trilled the last part, ensuring that the lie's delivery was convincing.

A white-lie, but an entertaining one, to be sure.

There was a shriek of wind outside that could not seem to drown-out the low hiss of rage that Bertrand created. The shifter whirled on him. Vlad took another sip of his wine, still smiling, as his personal space was invaded by eight feet of snarling, furious ectoplasmic goo. The damned thing smelled like death, ironically enough.

Oh, the clichés in his situation were enough to infuriate!

"Do _not _speak to me about Penelope!" Bertrand snarled. "You know _nothing_, whelp! You sit here in your castle and think yourself above everything, but in truth you're naught but an accident. A freak of nature who has managed to cling to an existence as a half-alive _thing_ with nothing but his money and his schemes and his power to comfort him. My _zvezda _will come back in time. She knows the consequences."

The words struck a nerve, a raw one that scraped against the back of his teeth until his tongue bled from clenching it. But Vlad forced his face to remain a mask, smile mischievous, shoulders relaxed. The creature did not know that he already had Jasmine, the gaunt, distrustful little girl with eyes so much like her mothers it ached. The creature did not know that he was working to find Daniel, who likely looked much like his mother as well.

Bertrand did not know that once he had the ultimate power, he would have Maddie, and the worlds would grovel at his feet for a mercy it had not shown to him.

For now, anyway, that was as good a defense as any against this overly-aggressive eldritch monster.

"Temper, temper, Bertrand," Vlad cooed, tone dripping honey. "I was curious, nothing more. I'll keep my curiosity to myself next time, hmm? Besides, we both know I've set my sites on another."

Bertrand and his shadows withdrew. His form settled into something a bit less monstrous, features pale and human though his frame still stretched too tall. Crossing his over-long arms across his chest, the shifter nodded.

"Of course." One eyebrow shifted upwards. "I assume there is nothing else you require of me?"

Vlad finished off the last of his wine, relishing the flavor of the alcohol. "Not for the moment, no. Should I require anything else, I'll simply tell one of your little spies of my need. For now, you may go."

Something dangerous lit in the back of Bertrand's eyes, and for the first time since he'd met the eldritch creature, Vlad felt a twinge of unease ripple down the back of his neck. Bertrand was foul-tempered and short-sighted, yes, often blinded by his obsession with his little pet emotiphage. But there was a shrewd intelligence that lay behind the bluster. It could be. . . unsettling when provoked.

The moment passed quickly, and Bertrand offered him a mocking bow before melting back into the shadows, taking with him the cold and the rancid odor that had become nearly gagging. Vlad snarled to himself for his momentary lapse.

However, as he began to mull over the information Bertrand provided, his stratagem for the game began to shift accordingly. The Abyss was at the very edge of the known Ghost Zone, a black hole which had formed when two truly massive kingdoms collided centuries ago. It was dangerous to approach and near-impossible to escape from if an unlucky soul stumbled past the event-horizon. However, if he could work that to his advantage. . .

Perhaps getting past the Behemoth would not be so challenging after all.

Still, he might have to delay proceeding further until Jasmine had settled in comfortably. It wouldn't do for Maddie's precious daughter to be injured because she was curious and fell head-first into her new father's business.

Vlad thought back to that little girl in her hospital bed, with her too-wide violet eyes and red hair tied in ribbons. Hospitals still put his nerves on edge, even after all the years that had passed since his accident, so visiting her had been a bit of a challenge. But it was also difficult to see such a tinything, stuck in that bed like he'd been. Empathy had never been something that Vladimir Masters was known for.

It made his skin itch.

But, as he returned to his desk to finish going over paperwork for the night, the look in Jasmine's eyes refused to leave him alone.

She'd looked _through him_. Like she'd _seen him_.

And there was something about that he found disturbing.

**A/N: **

**Holy fuck I should be studying for a test but the plot wouldn't leave me alone and now it's like one in the morning, so here, have this blurb of a chapter that I've cranked out in the last three days. . . . Danny is going to be really depressing for the next chapter or so but after that I PROMISE it will get better. Mostly. Maybe. **

**These poor children deserve so much better, I mean REALLY.**

**Also, Vlad is a fuckass and his character is **_**super **_**hard to write because of it, so please don't murder me for him being a dickwaffle this early on, okay? He hasn't met the sunshine baby yet. He needs to ease himself into loving the sunshine baby. Still a fuckass, though.**

**Thank you all so much for making it this far, and I hope to see you all in the next chapter!**


	14. Chapter 14

Walker loved his kids.

Really, he did.

Most of the Ghost Zone thought that there wasn't an ounce of love in his cold, dead heart. To be fair, they were criminals and he was trying to enforce _some_ modicum of discipline in what was, essentially, an endless wasteland of anarchy. It was a hard line to toe between being strong enough to make people listen and being downright _cruel_. Sometimes, Walker found himself on the latter side of the line. But his kids?

His kids were just that – his.

Johnny was his first. Had the worst luck of any person he'd ever met, living or dead. Brat smoked like a freight train when he thought no one was looking. And that dang Shadow was a menace. But he was also a pretty good big-brother and could fix just about any sort of machine he wanted if he'd just stop being lazy for two seconds.

Ember was a spitfire with a heck of a temper, swore almost as much as Spectra (which was a horrific thought), and one of the most talented musicians in the Zone. She could be downright sweet when she wanted to be or a _nightmare_ when someone set her fuse off. Had a heck of a sweet tooth, too, which made it hard to keep any sort of desserts in the house at any given point in time.

Taylor was rambunctious and needed a spanking on a good day, but he was also clever and happy and an absolute _riot_ when he started cracking jokes. He had trouble paying attention. But determined was his middle name – made more evident by the record time he'd set mastering his new prosthetics – and there was nothing the little brat couldn't accomplish if he wanted to.

So yeah, he loved his kids to the Moon and back.

But sometimes he wanted to beat them all within an inch of their afterlives.

Walker growled as Ember and Skulker (seriously, what she saw in the hunt-happy moron, he'd never understand) devolved into another round of bickering. Johnny wasn't helping, sprawled across the couch like he owned it and chiming in every now again with something to goad Ember on.

Five minutes.

Danny and Taylor had been playing for five minutes, and he was ready to throw them all out on their rears just so he'd have some peace and quiet. Christ's sake, he hadn't even got to put on his _clothes _yet!

"Skulker, if you don't drop it, I swear to _fuck_ you're gonna be chewing on my boot for the next month!" Ember snarled, hair blasting towards the ceiling.

Walker snapped. "That's it! Ember Marie, you sit yer narrow behind _down_ an' quit swearin'! Johnny, if you don' get yer feet off my couch, I'm gonna plant yer nose 'round on the side a' yer head! An' Skulker if ya can' stop eggin' m'kid on, _get outta my house!_"

For a moment, everyone sat in stunned silence. Slowly, Johnny sat up and planted his feet firmly on the ground, swallowing thickly as he leaned forward to start taking off his boots. Ember was much less contrite, but sat cross-legged on the floor anyway, arms crossed with a pout. Skulker just quirked a steel eyebrow and bore his crooked teeth in a wide grin.

"I was wondering when the warden would rear his ugly head," Skulker grunted. "I was beginning to wonder if you'd been whipped by that one over there."

He jerked his chin towards Spectra, who hadn't been paying a lick of attention. She'd been too busy staring up at the landing overhead and gnawing anxiously at her fingernails. The bandages on her forearms were glaringly white and, despite himself, Walker felt his chest burn angrily on her behalf.

"Shut yer mouth or I'll throw ya in solitary for a month!" It was a bitten off command, practically shaking.

The overgrown bucket of flesh and bolts had the gall to _snort _at him, and Walker could feel a headache coming on. It couldn't be healthy for his blood-pressure (ectoplasm pressure?) to be this high, even if he was dead. His hands were so tense that he could feel his knuckles beginning to pop one by one.

Spectra glanced their way for a moment, green eyes still shadowed, and suddenly Walker realized exactly _why_ she was so anxious. Any second she wasn't seeing Danny was, in her mind, a moment Bertrand could be using to take him. Walker was reasonably certain that the night before had simply been a scare-tactic, a display of power to make sure that she remembered who was "in charge" so to speak.

He'd seen it plenty of times before. Bertrand wasn't a special kind of monster; he was just a stronger version of the same old song and dance.

Still, he needed to get her to relax before she tore her nails clean off.

Walker shot one more glare at Skulker before he stalked over to where Spectra stood. Gently, he rested a hand on her shoulder. "Sugar, ya need ta relax. He's gonna be alright. Tay'll come get us if he needs to."

She glanced at him again, eyes darting between the fingers on her shoulder and the look on his face. Her lower lip was caught between her teeth, gnawing, and Walker groaned internally when he realized Danny had picked up the bad habit from _Spectra_ of all people. He let his hand drop, running it through his hair, and his shoulders slumped forward.

God Almighty, he was so tired.

"Pen," he coaxed lowly, "come sit down. Please?"

This time, she turned to look at him. Walker bit his tongue when he noticed she'd slammed her mask down in place, the one that made it impossible to read her. He _hated _it when people did that. For some reason, he hated it more when she did it, and that made him a bit uncomfortable. Spectra didn't say anything. She glanced up the stairs one more time before slowly making her way over to the couch, dropping onto the leather with a boneless kind of exhaustion.

Walker sat on the arm closest to her, rubbing at his temples with one hand. "God, 'm getting' too old fer this."

Ember snorted. "Does this mean I'm allowed to keep calling you old, Papa? 'cause that might make up for getting stuck with Tay at the Truce party this year."

Beside him, Spectra managed to crack a tiny smile, though her hands were trying to strangle themselves in her lap. Johnny dissolved into wheezing laughter. Skulker just rolled his eyes.

"_You_, little miss, are on thin ice ta begin' with," Walker warned. "Ya know _dang_ well that Taylor's a handful an' that I always have a good excuse when I can't make it ta the party. What were y'all thinkin', bustin' in like that? Ya could'a really done some damage today."

The expression on Ember's face closed off, sullen and churlish. She crossed her arms over her knees.

"We just wanted to see the new kid, that's all," she griped. "I didn't think it'd be this big of a _thing_, jeez!"

Johnny rolled his eyes, propping his foot up on his knee. "I _told you_ both it was a bad idea but NOOO! You an' Tay are a couple of little shits, ya know? Thought Skulker was gonna blow a jet tryin' to keep up with you guys. It's not cool, dig?"

He was going to grind his teeth to dust before he hit two hundred. "Swear one more time, Johnny. See what I do." Beside him, Penelope snorted. "You can hush 'fore I lose what little sense I got left."

"Oh, do you have sense now? That's news to me, Tex." Her voice was quiet, but it dripped the confident sarcasm she was so well-known for.

Walker knew she was covering her own anxiety, but did it have to be directed at him? Sighing, he scrubbed his fingers through his hair again, trying to ignore the way his kids (and Skulker) were gawking at the pair of them. When he looked back at her, Penelope looked entirely too proud of herself.

"Hush up, you," he growled half-heartedly. "Yer the reason 'm thinkin' 'bout reinstating the swear jar again. Though, 'm pretty sure you'd need a swear _barrel_."

Johnny snorted behind his hand and shot them both a grin. "Really, Pen? I didn't think anyone could make Pops bring back the swear jar after Em."

"She's a nightmare, honestly!" The warden tossed up his hands in exasperation. "One of the smartest people I ever seen an' she can' make it fifteen minutes without swearin' unless Danny's in the room. Beats all I ever saw."

"Okay, first of all, that's fucking _rude_," Penelope griped. "Because I'm sitting right here listening to you. Second, I can _so _make it fifteen minutes without swearing. I choose not to because it pisses you off. And third, I'm not paying any money to some stupid ass swear-barrel just to feed your complex."

. . . . he'd invited this into his life. _Willingly_.

And, at this point, he wasn't sure how he'd managed to muddle through three kids without her.

Not that _she'd_ ever know that.

"My 'complex'," Walker began, arms crossed across his chest and brow furrowed, "is bein' sure that yer smart enough ta express yerself without swearin' every two seconds. An' that yer swearin' like a maniac just ta get under my skin."

Spectra glared up at him, and even though he hated when she got that set to her jaw, Walker was kind of proud that he'd managed to get her to stop fixating. Then she smiled, slow and evil, and his stomach dropped.

"You just make it so _easy_, Tex," she crowed. "It's like poking a hungry bear. Or a toddler with a bad temper."

Walker could hear Ember and Johnny choking on air. Ember was face-down on the carpet, shoulders shaking as she tried to reign her laughter in. Johnny's face looked like it was about to spontaneously combust. Skulker didn't even try to hide his laughter, though, great guffaws billowing out of him as he thumped back into the recliner.

"Yer worse than them, ya know that?" the warden griped. "At least m'kids _listen_ to me sometimes. _You_ jus' sit back an' _sass_ me all day."

Her grin widened. "What can I say? You're an easy target and I need _someone _to make fun of. Can't let my skills get rusty, after all, and I would never talk to Danny like this."

"No, you just talk ta me like this in _front _of 'im."

"Oh my God, would you two get a room, already?" Ember cackled. "I can smell the UST from here!"

Johnny flailed, shushing her so hard that he fell off the couch in a pile of limbs and cigarette-stained leather. Ember dissolved into helpless laughter again, not even attempting to get away when he scrambled over and practically flopped on top of her. They wrestled and slapped at each other for a few minutes, like a pair of little kids. Skulker was a useless lump on the recliner, wiping tears from his eyes.

"_Shut up!"_ he hissed. "_Shut up, shut up, shut up, Penny might actually know what that is?!_"

"T-the look on Papa's _face_!" Ember howled. " 's like. . . oh my _God_!"

Heat crept into Walker's cheeks. Even though he wasn't entirely sure what UST was, he could read the implications. He wasn't _stupid_, dangit.

"Y'know, sometimes I regret dealin' with you punks," Walker grumped. "Yer a _pain_, every last one a ya."

When he looked at Spectra, he'd expected to see her grinning at his ignorance. He'd expected her to start firing off shots designed to poke at what remained of his self-restraint.

What he _hadn't_ expected was to watch her go pale, the color draining from her cheeks until she looked physically sick. The little witch could be utterly _shameless_ sometimes. She could cuss a blue-streak and tell jokes that made him blush, and he'd been a Marine, for Christ's sakes! And then he thought back to what she'd said, to the bandages on her arms and the handprints around her throat and his stomach sank to his knees. Her hands were trying to strangle themselves on her lap again.

"Ember, Johnny, shut yer mouths," he ordered, voice low.

The pair looked up at his tone, confused. Ember was still giggling.

"Why, Papa?" she teased. "Aww, are we making you and your new girlfriend uncomfortable?"

Penelope _flinched_.

"Both of you _can it_!" Walker snarled.

And they did, eyes wide, confused. Walker ignored them. "Pen, they didn' mean nothin' by it. It's jus' a joke, 'kay?"

Her gaze darted between him and the others, occasionally tracking to shadows in the corners of the room. "Nothing is ever _just_ a joke, Tex. And you know it."

It came out a whisper, fierce and scared.

The warden made an executive decision that he was going to destroy Bertrand if he ever got the chance. "He ain't gonna touch you again. I meant it earlier an' I mean it now."

Johnny and Skulker looked confused. Figured – the two weren't exactly the brightest bulbs in the pack, even though his eldest tried, bless his heart. Ember, though, was glancing between them with that look in her eyes. The one that she'd gotten when he'd taken her cigarettes and she'd retaliated by wrapping his _entire _office in tin-foil.

He did not like that look.

Walker opened his mouth to say something. Except he never got around to it because Taylor's voice, high-pitched and panicked, bellowed from the top of the staircase.

"Papa! Papa, something's wrong!"

Spectra up and running before he could even fully register what Taylor had said, but he wasn't too far behind her, taking the stairs two at a time. They hit the landing at a full run, and he had to catch Penelope when her foot slipped on the runner.

But there stood Tay at the end of the hall, eyes wide and breath puffing up in big clouds.

Wait.

Breath clouds?

"What happened?!" Spectra barked.

Taylor flinched, and Walker clapped a hand on her shoulder. "Pen, don't. What happened, bud?"

Sniffling, the ten-year-old rubbed at his eyes, shaking a bit. "W-we. . . we were playing, and I think I scared Danny, 'cause he got real quiet, so I stopped and we sat down to talk. But I think I said the wrong thing 'cause he got real still and then he was shaky and now there's _ice _everywhere and he won't _move_, Papa, I'm so sorry!"

He'd barely gotten it all out before Penelope was shoving past him and into the bedroom. Walker rested a hand on Taylor's head quickly, smoothing it over his hair as his boy burst into tears. "Ya did good, kiddo. It's gonna be alright, ya hear? Go downstairs an' sit with yer brother and sister for a sec, 'kay?" Taylor nodded. "Good boy. G'on now."

Taylor ran off, footsteps clunking unevenly as he went. The air was getting colder around him, goosebumps raising along the back of his neck and bare arms. Walker rushed into the bedroom. . . .

And nearly busted his rear.

Ice covered the floor, thick and smooth. It spiraled up the bunk-beds, the dresser, the walls. His breath – even though he didn't necessarily _need _to breathe – puffed in a thick fog around his mouth and nose. Fear crawled its way up his throat, and Walker made his way over to where Spectra stood in the center of the room. She was clinging to Danny.

The air was so cold it burned.

"Shhh, baby, it's alright. I'm right here," Penelope soothed, trying to keep her teeth from chattering. "You're just fine."

Danny sucked in a rattling gasp of a breath. But he wasn't shaking. Not this time. His body wasn't even moving, just trembling with cold and stiff as ice crawled over his fingers. "Mama, 'm sorry. Don' hate me, please, please, _please_."

At this point, Spectra was shivering. Hard. Walker wasn't entirely sure it was just due to the cold. Panic was written on every line of her face.

"No one hates you, sweetheart," she whispered. "Shhh, little love, deep breaths. Remember? Follow me."

She took an exaggerated breath, trying to coach him through the attack. But it wasn't working this time. Danny had dissociated completely. The ectoplasm leaking from his eyes was a mixture of electric blue and toxic green. It froze in rivers on his cheeks. The little fingers clinging to Spectra's top were covered in ice, blue and purple creeping from the nails to the joints.

He was freezing, right down the bones.

" 'm sorry, Mama. Mama, 'm sorry."

It was a desperate plea, rasping as it escaped Danny's tiny frame. The room got even colder.

"I've got you. I've got you." Spectra could hardly talk through the vicious chattering of her teeth. "I can't get him to calm down. Walker, he's too cold. This much ice, it's too much for his body to take!"

She was panicking. He could see it in her eyes.

His military training took hold, and Walker didn't hesitate anymore. He snatched Danny up, tearing the little fingers frozen to her top away and marching towards the stairs. Penelope's voice was a distant murmur under water, rushing through his ears, nothing but white noise. Danny was like a block of ice, thin limbs locked tight with cold. His lips were blue. Frost crept along his cheeks in odd patterns.

His boy was Fading.

"Ember!" Walker felt his throat work, vocal cords raw. "C'mere, now!"

She met him at the bottom of the stairs. "Papa, what the hell. . . ?!"

He didn't give her time to finish. Instead, he shoved Danny at her, pressing every inch of the little boy's frame against Ember's chest. She gasped, eyes wide. Walker watched her hair fan out, compensating for the sudden drop in temperature. He barely took note of the way his own teeth chattered, how his fingers had turned blue and his arms shook.

"Keep 'im warm, warm as ya can," he ordered seriously. "Yer the fastest one here _and_ the one that runs hottest. Get him ta Frostbite. He'll know what t'do."

Ember stared at him for a minute. "Papa, I don't. . . I can't. . . !"

"_Dammit_, Ember Marie, this is _important_!" Walker snarled. "You _can_ do this, and you _will_. So get goin'! Danny'll Fade if ya don't!"

It fell like a curtain over her face. Determination. Confidence.

Ember nodded once. Then she was off like a shot, Skulker holding the door open for her as she blasted through it. The cyborg followed on her heels. His engines roared and rattled the windows. Walker was still underwater, core thrumming and ears ringing and fingers shaking. Penelope was yelling at him from somewhere. But the words didn't quite make sense.

Johnny tossed a jacket at his face, the heavy insulated one that smelled like menthol cigarettes. There were keys in the pocket. "Take my bike, Pops. It's faster. Kitty's helmet's on the back – it should fit Penny just fine."

He moved on autopilot.

Shrugged on the coat. Nodded, thumbed the keys. Stepped through the busted front door. Penelope's hand was in his, clammy, clinging too hard. When had he grabbed it? Didn't know. Didn't really care. One foot, then the next. To the bike, sitting too low. His back would hate him later.

Still, didn't matter, Danny needed him.

Penelope was talking again. Yelling? She was crying. Big tears like crystals. There were hands on his chest, smacking at him. It didn't matter. He tried to be gentle, really, but there was a river rushing through his skull and Danny was freezing, and then she was sat on the seat behind him. The engine was hot, growling, heat scorching at his calves. Was he wearing shoes? Maybe? His toes were cold.

It didn't matter.

Johnny might not've been able to put a cam-chain on by himself, but he kept the thing in model condition otherwise. It surged into drive. There were gouges in the front yard. Penelope's arms were wound tight around his middle. Too tight. He couldn't get a good breath. But she was shaking. Shivering? It was _freezing_. Did she have a coat? Shoes?

He'd have to ask Frostbite for something – the Far-Frozen was terrible.

The Harley roared. Maybe. There were bubbles in his ears so he couldn't be sure. He skirted the edge of the event horizon. Ember had gotten a couple of minutes on them, if that. But she was barely a speck of blue in the distance. Little punk-princess was _fast_.

There was a point in time when Walker would've been really proud of that.

Why did his chest hurt so bad?

Penelope was talking again. He couldn't make out the words. But he could read the tone. She was _scared_ and he'd promised himself she would never be scared _again _and, God Almighty, how useless could he possibly be? The motorcycle whined. Groaned. His knuckles were white on the handlebars. Penelope's were white around his waist. Everything was cold. The wind was shrieking in his ears.

It didn't matter.

Skulker's Island was nothing but a blur in his peripheral vision. The prison was a distant thought. They blasted past Technus's workshop and Desiree's palace and nothing mattered but the feeling of Penelope shivering against his back and the fact that Danny was _freezing_.

There.

The Far Frozen, up ahead.

It loomed, a gaping maw of ice and snow and furry, rule-breaking monsters. His toes were screaming at him. His fingernails were turning blue. Not a problem. He was dead anyway, and his body was stronger than that. Walker leaned into a turn, weaving through massive fingers of ice, dodging ice-worms that lunged at them from beneath snow drifts. So much white, shadows turning it gray, and he was locked inside his own head with the silence.

It was like this in the trenches except there was smoke everywhere and young men screaming, filled with shrapnel, and his ears were bleeding and mud filled his boots and the cold seemed to seep into your bones until there was nothing but ice and blood and the smell of death.

Autopilot could be a wonderful thing because he didn't realize how much time was passing until he had landed, the bike slipping on loose powder and pipes blistering his calves. His pants were too thin. The wind ripped through them. Penelope had huddled as far into his back as she could go.

Walker swung a leg over the bike. Crap – he _had _forgotten shoes. Float up, expend some energy, and the blizzard on the horizon was wailing out threats. He turned to look at Penelope. She wasn't wearing shoes either. He'd have to threaten Frostbite for some. Or maybe not. Frostbite might've been a fluffy pain in his rear, but he was soft when push came to shove, especially over women and children. Maybe he'd even convince him to hand over something for his skin – his knuckles were cracking like old paint.

There were guards near the entrance to the village. One a man, the other maybe a woman. It was hard to tell here sometimes. Walker grabbed Penelope's hand again, tugged. She was talking again, lips moving, and he could see ice crystals in her eyelashes. Still couldn't hear her, though. Huh – that was weird. Didn't matter. They had to get moving.

One guard sneered at him, all yellow fangs and amber eyes, and Walker snarled right back. But they let him through, didn't stop his progress at all. It'd been a while since he'd got to fly this quickly – Danny would let him go moderately fast, but top speed was out of the question – and his stomach dropped with the force of it.

Ember knew where the medical facility was, knew where to go and who to threaten. He'd taught his little girl well, after all. It shouldn't have taken her long to get there. It didn't take them long. Not even when his toes were numb, and his fingers felt like they were going to drop off. Something pushed him forward. Not Penelope, he was pulling her, but _something_. Pushing between his shoulder blades and nudging his legs, one foot in front of the other. Another step. Another burst of flight. Keep moving forward, it said, there's no choice.

Wait.

He's in the medical center.

When did he get here?

Walker blinked, clenched his fingers and turned to Frostbite. The big monster looked more serious than he'd ever seen him, brows furrowed over his amber-red eyes as he looked at the little boy in the de-icing chamber. Ember was with Penelope, one arm wrapped around the shade's shoulders as they shook. Their fingers were pressed to the glass. He didn't know why. Danny was asleep, eyes closed, fingertips still tinged black and purple from frostbite.

Hah! That was a pun.

"You were right to bring him here, Warden." Oh, Frostbite was talking. "Had young Ember arrived much later, the damage to his body would have been irreversible. Physically, he was in no condition to deal with an energy buildup this severe. Tell me, how did you come across a child in such a terrible physical state?"

"He formed that way." He was floating away, but his body wouldn't stop talking. "Danny was abused and experimented on before his death. It's been slow progress."

Frostbite growled. The muscles under his pelt rippled, claws flexing, arms crossing. "I have been called a monster many times, Warden, but the soul who did this damage to a child is truly monstrous. You should take care to make young Danny use his ghost powers moving forward. He's only been letting it out in small increments. Because of this, his ice energy became irritated, and something triggered this attack. You got very lucky. Next time, the outcome might not be so favorable."

Great shaggy monsters were not tactful. Walker could understand that. Tact was for those who had time and patience and emotional ranges that went further than irritation and disappointment. His toes were cold. His chest was numb.

"Thank ya, Frostbite. I owe ya one."

A clawed paw descended on his shoulder. Squeezed. It felt very far away. "You have nothing to thank you for, my friend. There are guest rooms just to the right, and my compatriots have provided blankets and shoes for you and Ms. Spectra. Young Danny will have to be in the chamber for the rest of the day. But, as I said before, there should be no lasting damage."

They weren't friends. Walker openly disliked Frostbite. But the giant furry moron didn't take social cues very well. It was made evident by the numerous unwelcome hugs over the years.

He'd have to re-evaluate his opinion of Frostbite and his people.

One more nod, and the Fluffy Pain new friend was gone. Walker stepped forward. He had to watch his step. Fur-runners made paths on the ice floor but that didn't mean he wouldn't eat it. Ember was looking at him. Her makeup had smeared, thick black lines down her cheeks. Her hair kept twisting over itself. She was upset.

"Papa? What did Frostbite say?" Ember sniffled.

"He'll be fine. No permanent damage." His voice floated away the German boy was dying screaming in his ear on a soft wind. "Why don'tcha go on home? Tell Johnny an' Tay what's goin' on for me. Take the bike back. Ya made good time, kiddo."

Ember's lip wobbled, jaw set. Gearing up for a fight. "Skulker already went back to tell them everything. Papa, I can't just _leave_. . .!"

"Please?"

Hair flickered. Too bright. Too blue. She didn't belong here, too hot and too wild and the ice would creep into her bones and take her fire. "This place fuckin' steals your soul, Gunny. Don't let it win. Don't let it fuckin' win." Least he could do was send her home where she'd be warm and with Johnny.

Ember's shoulder slumped. She nodded at him. Then hugged him tight about the middle. She smelled like cigarettes. Little brat – she snuck 'em when she didn't think he was looking. He squeezed her back and kissed her head and felt the _someone_ push her away. Wait, why was he pushing again?

"I'll see you later, then, Papa." She looked at Penelope. "Take care of him?"

They'd take care of Danny, but why was she looking at him? He was a grown man. No one "took care" of him. He watched over his kids and his prison and that was how it went, watch and protect "Leave 'im, Gunny, he's a fuckin' goner! Keep better watch next time!" and keep everyone safe.

Walker looked at the tank. Danny looked so _tiny_, floating in his Sesame Street drawers with the scars standing out. Light was funny here, with all the ice and the snow. Made everything too bright, too focused. Hurt your eyes. The scar on Danny's thin chest – God Almighty, you could _still_ count his ribs – was blue and green and purple, mocking. Too stark. It made him angry, too angry to think, so he looked at the track-marks on straw arms then the burns on narrow shoulders then the scars around overlarge eye-sockets and then took a deep breath to count the freckles across a tiny nose. . .

"Walker?"

It was funny, how he'd never noticed the green tinge to Danny's freckles. Sometimes he was too busy wiping syrup or spaghetti sauce off his cheeks. They were cute. Like the gap between his front teeth, the one that made him lisp over certain words when Pen could get him to talk. Or the way he smiled or how he rubbed his nose with his blankie when he was tired.

"Walker, look at me."

This was _his_ fault. He'd taken care of _three_ under-aged new arrivals in the past twenty years. The signs had been there. All of them. Every last one. Abnormally cold extremities, delayed manifestations, stiffness. Danny had been cranky for a few days, refused to be put down. Wanted to be touching them all the time. Kid slept all the time, too. It was all _right there_, staring him in the face, and he just hadn't _seen_.

The private looks at him and the left side of his head is missing and his eyes are milky but he _grins_ and charred fingers reach for him and there's someone screaming behind him, mortars falling and machine guns firing and mud and blood between his toes and the body says _you should've seen_

How could he not have seen?

"Jeremiah!"

Walker blinked again. Tore his eyes away from the de-icing chamber. "Hmm?"

Penelope was staring at him, arms around her middle. "You were dissociating. Quit it. _Now_."

Dissociating? Is that what he was doing? That made sense. But what expression was that? Concern? Nah – Spectra was head-over-heels for Danny, but they weren't. . . she didn't. . . he didn't know. Words didn't really want to fit in his mind. They floated around like ice cubes in a Coke Danny in a tank bodies in a trench and went straight between his fingers.

"_Jeremiah_!" There were hands on his cheeks, small with cold fingers, and he jumped. "Look at me! I need you to be here, okay? Take a breath and focus on me."

Focus on her.

He could do that.

Penelope was all but right now she looked tiny. Just as tiny as Danny. Dwarfed by the Far Frozen and its citizens. Her lips were tinged blue. She was still shivering. He looked down and she wasn't wearing shoes? Just like him. Why weren't they wearing shoes again, this place was colder than a well-digger's hind-end? Walker frowned and looked at her eyes. They were glassy. Worried. There were tears.

Had he made her cry?

"Yer cold." It wasn't a question. "take this. It's pretty warm."

His jacket, the one that smelled like menthols, thumped on her shoulders and went almost to mid-thigh. Little witch was all legs. It was distracting sometimes. Almost as distracting as how she blinked at him with owl-eyes. They were so _green_.

"Thank you," she said, almost a mumble.

The light caught in her hair and it was so _long_ now, brushing down past her shoulders. She almost never wore it in spikes anymore because Danny liked to play with it, liked to twist the strands between his tiny fingers and take naps. Walker swallowed. His tongue was made of sandpaper and filled with gravel.

She shouldn't thank him.

This was his fault, after all.

The bodies grin and their milky eyes say _your fault, Gunny_

"It's Buildup. Energy Buildup. That's what Frostbite said. Too much regular ectoplasm in his system 'cause he ain't expellin' it like what we do when we, y'know, fly or turn intangible or whatever. Danny's body's so weak he can' handle it, so his ice energy got irritated." His mouth won't stop making words. "'s been goin' on fer weeks. Had ta 've been, t'get this bad. The signs were there. I should'a seen 'em. I _did _see 'em an' 'm just too stupid t'know what 'm doin' I guess."

His eyes were burning and his chest ached and Walker swallowed down a thick wad of spit that cemented his throat shut. The tips of his fingers were numb. Was he shaking? He couldn't tell anymore.

"It ain' yer fault. You never had a ghost kid ta take care of. You don't know the signs. 'm sorry."

Someone was squeezing his numb fingers. Penelope? Walker looked and she looked back and there was a frown on her face, pulling down her eyebrows.

"Stop that. It's not your fault. We both should have been better about making him use his powers. Stop blaming yourself."

Her voice was thick, but her eyes were sharp, and Walker felt his throat seize. His hands started shaking again. Penelope just squeezed them tighter. Her fingers were strong, despite their size. They were still a little cold.

"I'm sorry."

"I know you are, Tex. Come on. It's freezing, and I want to sit down. It's been a shitty, _shitty_ morning."

Oh, that's right. It hadn't even passed noon yet. What the heck was his life anymore?

It was Penelope pulling him forward instead of the _someone_ pushing him, and Walker was too tired to put up a fight. His head hurt. He was cold. Nothing wanted to move. Frostbite's. . . citizens? Servants? They'd set up a heck of a room. Thick furs and a fireplace and a couch that looked like it could swallow the pair of them whole. Penelope dragged him over to the couch and shoved, stoked the fire for a quick second, and then plopped down beside him.

Her frown hadn't really fallen. Not even as she dragged one of the thickest furs over the top of them. Not even as she huddled against his side and laced their fingers together again. She squeezed until the feeling started to return to them. Walker felt his eyes burning.

"Jeremiah Walker, how in the absolute _fuck_ did you forget to put on shoes?" Of all the things to question him on, that was what she went for? "These floors feel like Siberia had a love-child with fucking liquid nitrogen or some shit."

He frowned. "You ain't wearin' shoes either."

"Ican thermoregulate to extremes. It's part of my fucked-up metabolism. _You_,on the other hand, are getting frostbite."

Despite himself, Walker snorted. "Frostbite. . .puns 're my favorite."

Penelope was trying to hide a smile. He could see it in the way her lips quirked and her eyes crinkled. "You have the _dumbest _sense of humor, I swear to Christ."

They lapsed into silence again. Walker could feel the heavy-numb feeling crawling back into his chest, creeping up his neck and into his limbs like static. He squeezed Penelope's hand, felt her press harder into his side. The fire washed heat over his face but it wasn't nearly as effective as her. She was like a radiator.

No wonder Danny preferred when she slept in his room.

"Is he really going to be okay?"

It didn't even sound like his voice, distant and raspy. _Weak_. Penelope leaned her head onto his shoulder and tucked another fur tighter around them.

"Frostbite said it was close. But he'll be fine. We might need to have Technus come up with something to help him regulate, though. His metabolism is fucked from all the pre-death starvation. It's gonna be a while before he can start managing his powers independently."

Walker nodded. Thought. Then. . .

"You talk like a dictionary half the time but swear like a thirteen-year-old with somethin' ta prove the other half. I don' get it. I jus' don' get it."

This time, Penelope laughed and looked up at him. "_That's_ what you pulled out of that?! Seriously?!"

"You were focusin' on whether or not I had _shoes_ two minutes ago, Pen!" he retorted. "I think we're both a little messed up from this mornin'!"

A thumb stroked over the back of his knuckles, and Penelope rested her head back on his shoulder. "Yeah. It's been a shitty fucking day. Can we ask Clockwork for a do-over? This sucks."

"Nah – Clockwork's a pain when everythin's goin' right. Much less when somethin's goin' wrong. It ain't worth the headache." He paused, thinking for a minute, and frowned. "Although, come ta think of it, if we do it over, I could punch Bertrand in the face. _That_ might be worth the trouble."

Walker could feel the bandages on Penelope's arms brush his wrist. He pulled one arm out and inspected them, glancing up at her. "Are these feelin' okay? The bandages haven't seeped or nothin' but I wanna be sure."

She nodded, cheeks awfully red. "They're fine. You could probably take them off at this point. I think they're pretty much healed."

"No. There could be somethin' floatin' in the air here. I don't want you gettin' an infection because you got impatient. The germs here are nothin' ta sneeze at."

Penelope gave him a Look. "Danny is _literally_ floating in a medical tank a hundred feet from us in a decently modern medical facility. I highly doubt I'll catch anything."

"Don't risk it. Seriously. Frostbite's told me stories."

Snatching her arm back from him – though the other one stayed wrapped around his – Penelope wrapped them both under the fur again. She rolled her eyes. "God, you're fucking stubborn."

"That's the pot callin' the kettle black, sugar."

"What the fuck ever."

The quiet pressed in again. Pushed on his ears and his joints until Walker didn't know if he was decompressing or under a hundred feet of water. He could hear the _whoosh_ and _whir_ of the de-icing chamber, the sounds of the core-monitor they'd hooked Danny to. There were Frost-monsters bustling this way and that. But it was too loud and too quiet and he just. . . he couldn't. . .

He squeezed Penelope's fingers again and whispered, "Ya really don't blame me?"

It took her a second to respond. "No, Tex. I really don't."

A swallow. His eyes burned. "I'd blame me. I _do_ blame me."

"I know." Simple, quiet, but not accusing.

The thumb traced back and forth over his knuckles. Soothing. Quiet. His jaw worked and Walker stared into the fire. Watched it flicker. He wondered if Tay was doing okay. Poor little guy – didn't mean to. God, he was probably blaming himself, too. Stuck with Ember and Johnny and not knowing when they were coming home or what was really going on. Tay was _ten_. He shouldn't have let him run off without supervision, especially not with Danny, who was a PTSD-stricken, anxiety-riddled _toddler_.

Why was he put in charge of children again?

Jeremiah Walker wasn't built to be a parent.

"Hey, Pen?"

"Hmm?"

He swallowed. His voice shook. "Thanks fer not lettin' go."

Penelope went very still. Then she tucked further into his side, thumb still tracing back and forth, back and forth over his knuckles. They felt raw but in a good way. Kept him grounded. Kept him from floating away into the stars sinking back into the mud and the blood and milky eyes and dead kids again.

"You're welcome."

They listened to the de-icing chamber beep and waited.

They didn't let go of the other's hand.

**A/N:**

**HOlY fUCkInG sHiT so it's been a hot second!**

**Wow, I was not expecting this chapter to be this difficult to write. I've had this section planned out literally from the beginning, because I thought that the manifestation of Danny's ice powers in canon was actually pretty Fucking Cool. But when I actually sat down (when I had a minute) to write it, nothing wanted to flow the way I wanted it to. Originally, I had it from multiple points of view. First Taylor, then Penelope, then Walker. But Tay is a hard little shit to write, and Penelope got a BIG fuckin' spotlight in Chapter 11. So I wanted to work with Walker exclusively for this chapter. Yes, I know, ONE point of view in a single chapter? In one of my fics? It's more possible than you think! **

**Which, incidentally, worked out _so _well for me?**

**Walker's personality in this universe is based heavily off of my own dad, who was raised in a strict military household and is very masculine. Huge, too, like 6'5". Literally, I have never seen this man cry. Not even at his own brother's funeral. Anyways, I actually had a car accident when I was in my senior year of high school. I'd slipped on some black ice and slid into the ditch. Not a whole lot of damage but it scared the shit out of me. Keep in mind, it's like ten degrees outside. My dad shows up to get me after I call him in hysterics. And the dumbshit isn't wearing shoes. **

**The man literally panicked so hard over his daughter crying that _he didn't put on fucking shoes _to drag my frozen ass out of the ditch. **

**TL;DR - my dad panicked when I got in a car wreck and went out in Arctic fucking temperatures without shoes on to rescue me. Hence that little detail in this chapter. **

**On a final note, I would to give a shout-out to all those who might be suffering from PTSD or other forms of anxiety or depression. It's fucking _rough_, and I know that sometimes it feels like there's no way to slog your way through the flashbacks or the panic attacks. But I want you to know that you aren't alone. There is a light at the end of the tunnel. You matter. You're important. **

**Keep that in mind, okay?**

**Live out of sheer fucking _spite _if you have to. **

**Anywhore, I know that this story is really fucking heavy so far (I don't need therapy, I swear) and it's difficult to slog through, but it's going to get better SOON. Thank you all so, so much for your comments and support throughout this journey. It means so much to me, you have no idea. **

**Once again, thank you, and I hope to see you all in the next chapter!**


	15. Chapter 15

Penelope had decided within the first hour that she _hated _the Far-Frozen.

Not just because it was colder than a witch's tit in a brass bra, though that didn't really help her opinion of the fucking place. Living with Danny for so long had left her with enough energy to survive the Ninth Circle, sure, but that didn't mean she had to fucking enjoy it. No – she hated the Far-Frozen because of the people.

They were too goddamn _nice_.

In her experience, there were very few people – human or ghost – that were genuinely kind. Genuinely good. Everything always wanted _something_. And most would do just about anything to do it. You caught more flies with honey, which meant you could con more dumb-shits with a grin and cheery attitude. Experience as a psychiatrist taught her the first part. Bertrand had beat the second part into her head within a month of forming.

The point was, the giant fucking furballs kept bring her things, faces split in kind grins full of fangs, and Penelope didn't trust it. . .

At all.

Beside her, Walter grumbled and shifted in his sleep. Penelope rolled her eyes and squeezed his hand for a moment, running her thumb over his knuckles. He'd fallen asleep after about fifteen minutes even though it was fucking _freezing_ – God, her toes were numb – and had been snoring for the past hour. In that hour, there had been no less than three separate monsters who'd come and checked on Danny. All of them had offered her kind smiles and stated that Danny was doing well.

"Your boy is strong. He will be fine."

"He's growing more stable by the hour, young one."

"You three will be able to return home by day's end. Is there anything else we can do?"

The kindness. . .

It _burned_.

Because there was no possible way it was all real.

Penelope growled to herself and snuggled deeper into the fur-cocoon they'd made, listening to the deep rumble in Walker's chest as he slept. He grunted again, an arm reaching up and wrapping tight around her shoulders before he settled back against the couch. It was heavy. Physically _heavy_. What the fuck did the man eat to get all that _muscle_?! Still, she couldn't help but smirk a little. The big, bad warden was a snuggler.

Who would've thought?

She tucked further into his side and kept the motion of her thumb going, staring over at Danny as he floated in the massive de-icing tank. Leads were plastered to his tiny chest. They kept track of his core-output, trying to monitor the amount of energy his body was producing in measured beeps that set her teeth on edge. He was still wearing his Sesame Street underwear. His favorite pair, the ones with Elmo and Big Bird. He'd picked them out all by himself, chattering with excitement as she'd gotten him dressed.

Looking at them now made Penelope's throat clench.

When the fuck would things be okay again?

She was so _tired_.

Tired of panic attacks and tired of looking over her shoulder every second of the goddamn day and tired of being somewhat close to happy one second then ready to eviscerate someone the next. She was tired of thinking that the monster under her bed was going to tear out her spine for being in the same room as another man and tired of hoping he it would snuggle against her back and wrap arms around her stomach and sing her a lullaby because she just couldn't _sleep_.

And she was tired of being confused by Jeremiah _fucking_ Walker, of all people.

Walker, who could and would toss someone in solitary just for the shits and giggles but spoiled Danny shitless without a second thought. Walker, who thought it was great fun to terrorize the Box Ghost – which, really, wasn't that big of a character-flaw in her opinion – daily but snapped at her for swearing, even though she was a grown fucking woman and could do as she damn well pleased. Walker, who teased her _relentlessly_ over the fact she couldn't cook but wouldn't let her help him with the laundry because she didn't fold the towels "right."

Walker, who tucked Danny in every night and Walker, who dressed like a fucking redneck hobo when no one was paying attention and Walker, who'd looked at her with those damn _eyes_ when he'd realized that Bertrand was an abusive _ass_.

Walker, who'd dissociated completely when it looked like Danny was going to Fade and _saved their boy anyway _and dragged her along for the ride.

No shoes and all.

Penelope hadn't realized she was crying until the arm around her shoulders tightened and a kiss landed on the top of her head. She froze, cheeks wet and icy. Danny's hair floated in thick white spirals in the de-icing fluid. It was too quiet. But too loud. That damn machine wouldn't _shut up_ and every rhythmic beep seemed to mock her.

_Your_. _Fault. Your. Fault. Your. Fault. _

_Useless. . . _

"Shhh," Walker rumbled. "'s okay, hon. Jus' a bad dream. I gotcha."

He wasn't awake, obviously. She could tell that by the way he immediately started snoring again. The way his arms were tight but not so tight she couldn't get away and that he wasn't questioning everything. What's wrong-what happened-who hurt you-why didn't you ask for help-let me help even if it won't do anything and...

Once Penelope started crying, she couldn't fucking _stop_, because she hadn't let herself really cry since everything began, not even after Bertrand's warning or Danny's confession or _anything_ that had happened over the course of the past fucking month because _this _bullshit would happen. The inevitable breakdown that made let everyone know she was a weak, worthless _mess_.

It all came out at once, a messy explosion of tears and mascara and snot that clung to her lips and teeth as she dissolved into a horrific sniveling _coward_ that couldn't keep it together to save her afterlife. Because she couldn't even save _herself_ way back when she was a real person, so how the fuck was she supposed to save that sweet little boy, who was covered in scars that he didn't deserve and had his eyes ripped out of their sockets. A sweet little boy that couldn't listen to a laundry timer without hyperventilating but loved to play with rockets, who _always_ had a smile just for her when he woke up and, _Christ_. . ..

She was so fucking _stupid_.

Danny could have Faded earlier, and she'd just fucking panicked like some sort of useless goddamn damsel, and how ironic was that? She busted Walker's balls constantly over thinking she wasn't strong enough or tough enough or capable of handling a trigger point and when everything boiled over, she'd been the one staring instead of _doing something_. And because she couldn't get it together, Walker had fallen into soldier-mode, Thousand-Yard-Stare included.

It had been. . .. _scary_, watching him work on autopilot like that. There hadn't been any hesitation. He'd just tore Danny from her and tossed him at Ember, barking orders like usual. Except it _hadn't _been business as usual because the words fell flat and his eyes were hyper-focused at something she couldn't see and he'd dragged her along by the hand even though it had hurt and she'd been yelling at him, eyes watering because the ache in her hands was creeping up her wrists like hellfire. Walker never did things like that. He might've been an ass but sometimes he could be downright chivalrous, so when he just didn't stop it had smacked in the face like a foot-long dick.

He'd dissociated because of her incompetence and everything was falling apart and Penelope just _couldn't _with this right now.

She clenched her fist and bit down until she tasted the distinct sick-sweet of her own ectoplasm. Her eyes were on fire. She couldn't get a good breath. Everything fucking hurt, from the gashes on her arms to the ache in her toes to the agony racing up her knuckles as they met enamel. But Pain was concrete. Pain was something she could deal with.

They had a mutual understanding.

So Penelope huddled tight against Walker – who was dead (ha!) to the fucking world and _deserved the sleep_ – and tried to get a grip on herself.

It took a few minutes. More than a few minutes, if someone were to drag the truth out of her. Sometimes, Penelope thought it was easier to gauge one of her "fits" by the number of mouthfuls of ectoplasm she choked down, gagging on the over-sweet taste and using the pain as an anchor.

This one took eight mouthfuls.

When it was all over, it was like nothing had happened. The machine de-icing chamber kept beeping. Walker kept snoring and his arm was heavy on her shoulders but warm against her skin. Fire danced in the hearth and ice crept up her spine and there she sat, wrapped like a package in a fur-cocoon.

Penelope Spectra, bane of the Ghost Zone. The Witch. The Demon. The Monster. With big black tear-tracks running down her cheeks and snot dripping from her nose, red-eyed and puffy and _pathetic_.

She could practically hear Bertrand clucking his tongue. And she knew what he'd do if he were here. He'd reach out and rub at the mess on her cheeks with his fingers, but he'd make them too long and sharp to be comforting. And he'd lean in close to nuzzle at her cheek and coo about what a _mess_ she'd made, about how _weak _such a loss of control was, and laugh when she glared at him. Then he'd kiss her forehead and pull her hair and hiss _clean yourself up_! before fading away into the shadows like some sort of nonsensical fucking _monster_ and. . . .

Penelope sniffled, scrubbing angrily at her eyes with the heel of one hand. No – she wasn't going down that road. She didn't need Bertrand. And Danny didn't need her like _this_, all brittle and stupid and _weak_.

"Are you quite alright, young one?"

She startled.

_Violently_.

"Jesus fucking Christ, what the fuck is wrong with you?!" Penelope's voice barely rose above a strangled hiss, but it seemed to echo in her ears. "You can't just sneak up on someone like that!"

Frostbite held up his hands, a universal gesture of surrender. The look on his gnarled muzzle was serious, but it was tinged with just the slightest bit of amusement, and he circled the sofa to sit on the coffee table in front of them.

"My apologies. I had not realized you did not hear me enter." The snow-beast's eyes grew solemn again. "But my question still stands – are you quite alright?"

Penelope wanted to punch him.

In the fucking _face_.

"I'm fine. Peachy. Never been better. Now do me a favor and _fuck off_." And if she sounded decidedly not fucking fine, then that was none of the furball's business.

Somehow – probably the work of some deity that got a kick out of her suffering – Walker hadn't woken up when she'd jumped. He grunted angrily in his sleep, arm tightening just a bit over her shoulders, and his forehead creased in a frown. Penelope glanced over at him for a second, thumb idly resuming its path over the top of his knuckles. The warden's expression relaxed.

Frostbite had the goddamn _audacity_ to smile at her.

"You are a strong one, Penelope Spectra." His voice was deep, and it rumbled through her like an avalanche. "My doctors have been commending your composure throughout this ordeal. But sometimes, even the strongest of us need support."

The giant's amber eyes turned pointedly to Walker, who seemed to be trying to pull her _into _him, and Penelope felt her face grow even hotter.

"I'm a psychiatrist, asshole, I know all about support systems and mental exhaustion," she snapped. "Are you done mimicking a fortune cookie? Because I have better things to be worrying about."

One fuzzy eyebrow rose in a knowing expression. "It seems to me that knowledge and execution are very different things, young one. You seemed very upset a moment ago."

Something cold rushed down Penelope's spine, angry and venomous and spiteful.

_Useless little whelp_, it hissed. _He knows how stupid you are, how worthless. See how he pities you? How are you supposed to help Danny? You can't even help yourself. . . what a pitiful little fool you are._

"I'm fine." It came out a rasping snarl. "You can go. Nothing to see here. Don't let the door bite you in the ass on the way out."

Nothing seemed to ruffle Frostbite. Not her tone, not her expression, and not her words. It set Penelope's teeth on edge because there was only one other person who treated her acerbity with the same sort of disregard, and he was an ancient fucking psychopath. She squeezed Walker's hand a little tighter as the monster crossed his thick arms over his barrel chest.

Then Frostbite smiled again, and Penelope was reminded how different the two creatures really were. Because the smile was warm, understanding, and even though the kindness in it made her skin chafe, she could feel her shoulders relaxing.

"When young Ember first brought Danny into our sanctuary, do you know what my first thought was?" Frostbite's tone was conversational, but there was an undercurrent of something very solemn underneath. "My first thought was that there would be no way that poor boy would pull through."

Penelope's core leapt into her throat. "What the _fuck _does that mean?!"

"He was almost too far gone to do anything with. His bones had already begun to freeze, right to the marrow. Newly-formed ghosts are resilient, yes, but that sort of damage is _incredibly_ difficult to come back from. Especially for someone who formed with so many scars from life. I thought that there would be no saving a little boy so very far gone, even though young Ember was very insistent we do everything we could. The sedation alone to transfer him into the de-icing chamber could have very well snuffed out his core.

"But then Danny did something that changed my mind. He opened his eyes, reached towards me, and asked for his Mama and Papa. Understand that most ghosts who come to our sanctuary that frozen can do nothing but shiver. Groan, perhaps, if they are lucky. But Danny? Danny was strong enough to fight through and _ask _for something. That was when I knew he would pull through."

Penelope could feel herself shaking. Her grip on Walker's hand was too tight. He kept squirming, frowning. She was going to wake him up. Which was selfish as hell because the big guy had just had a fucking dissociative episode, but when had she ever been anything _but _selfish? That was something Bertrand had always called her. Selfish little star and selfish little _piyavka_ – which didn't make sense because he sounded Scandinavian so why the fuck did he speak Russian? – and selfish little whelp.

"I now see that he gets his strength from you."

Okay, _fuck _him. That was a cheap shot. And now she was fucking _crying _again.

Christ, she hated crying.

A massive clawed paw squeezed her gently on the knee. Frostbite left without another word, returning to whatever icy fortune-cookie hellscape he came from. Penelope glared into the fire for another few minutes. But the tears wouldn't stop. So she lifted her fist and started gnawing on it again, trying to ground herself with the familiar burning agony of tooth-on-knuckle.

It only took three mouthfuls to calm down this time.

And then it was back to what it was.

Penelope sat in the silence, clinging to Walker's hand and listening to the sound of the de-icing chamber and the energy-trackers.

_Failure. Worthless. Screw-up. Weak_.

She scrubbed the mascara off her cheeks with a corner of one fur and gulped, ignoring how her mouth still tasted over-sweet and her jaw ached. As she sat there, the ragged indentations of her teeth seeped ectoplasm onto the furs beneath them. They would seal up in an hour or two. Self-inflicted injuries healed faster than ones made by other ghosts. Personal experience had taught her that.

Penelope could feel the bone-deep exhaustion catching up and finally allowed herself to relax into Walker fully, cheek pillowed on his shoulder. The low thrum of his core was pleasant white-noise under her ear, and cocoon around them was _heaven _compared to everything else. He smelled earthy, like cedar and something else she couldn't quite make out. But it was nice all the same.

And in the back of her mind, Penelope _knew _that Bertrand was going to find out about this. Knew that there would be hell to pay later. But, in the moment, exhausted and wrung-out and comfortable, she couldn't bring herself to care about anything but sleeping. As she drifted off, the last thing Penelope thought was how entirely _unfair _this whole situation was.

Walker squeezed her hand gently, heaved a great sigh, and rested his head on her own.

God was a fucking sadist.

She was sure of it.

~*O*~

danny is floating.

he likes water even though he's not very good at swimming because it's warm and heavy around him like a blanket and sometimes, when mommy or daddy holds him by the belly, he can pretend that he's flying. flying like a superhero or flying like an astronaut or flying like an angel, high into the sky where no one can ever hurt him again but. . .

this _isn't _what flying is like.

flying is. . .

flying is being at home with mr. walker and ms. penny and flying is going into the air above the house and playing games and flying is sitting on the couch under lots of blankies and taking a nap with ms. penny while mr. walker reads stories and flying is taylor having a robot arm, ember having blue hair, calling mr. walker and ms. penny "mama" and "papa" in his head even though he doesn't think he deserves to and. . .

danny is floating.

why is he floating?

there's something on his face and it tingles and there's something soft under his head and something furry around his body and he's confused? his eyelids feel so _heavy_, like they're made of metal, and danny thinks that this is what fishies must feel like. floating in the ocean or their bowls, just swimming around like there's nothing else to do.

danny opens his eyes and they don't ache like they usually do, and his arms and legs are heavy but they aren't _cold _anymore. there's no cold in his chest and no ache in his bones and danny is confused but it's a_ good _kind of confused. he moves his head, but it doesn't want to move like he wants it to either, so it just kind of flops to the side. someone is petting his hair. he smells mint and raspberries.

_mama_?

and then there _she is_ and she's smiling even though there's tears in her eyes. danny smiles back and the fingers in his hair keep moving and he wants to go back to sleep now, please. but he just woke up? he wants to tell mama that he loves her but his tongue is really thick in his mouth and it doesn't feel quite right, so he just keeps smiling. mama kisses his forehead hard, and danny feels his body make a happy noise.

"Hi, baby!" ms. penny is mama and she sounds so happy it makes danny's chest ache. "Are you feeling better?"

danny hums. it hurts his throat but the hurt isn't so bad here where it's warm and his head still feels floaty.

another hand sits on his forehead, turns it so he's looking at mr. walker. papa. the word tastes right when he thinks it. because it means train-pancakes and sneaky-candy and stories told in voices that mama can't do. it means bath-time tugboats and watching the cowboys together on the couch even when mama starts complaining because "football is _so _boring" even though she sits with them and sneaks papa's queso dip when he isn't looking.

danny wants to cry because _they didn't leave_ even though he was a very bad, cold little boy. something in the back of his head whispers that maybe, just maybe, he _isn't _a bad boy and that's why they stay? that's why they love him.

he wants to believe it.

he wants to believe it so _bad_.

"Hey, punk. Ya scared the bejeezus outta us, ya know that?" papa's voice is thick but he's not crying. "Are ya feelin' better?"

danny swallows. nods.

he is feeling better even though everything is still a little floaty and the bubbles in his head are popping against the bones. his tongue still doesn't wanna work right though, too thick and too big in his mouth, and danny tries to pretend that there isn't metal in his arms and picks one up so he can touch papa on the cheek. it works a little bit – he can touch papa even though it's clumsy and babyish and _dumb_ – and so danny pretends his throat doesn't feel like sandpaper and his tongue isn't like a balloon and says, _papa can we go home now?_

and then papa's eyes get _huge_, like plates, and he swallows hard. they're turning all shiny and red at the edges. papa doesn't ever cry, not even when he stubs his toe or hits his elbow because he's tough, so he's not crying now. his eyes are just sweatin'. that's what he likes to call it.

it's pretty warm here so danny thinks it makes sense. papa's gotta stay cool _somehow_.

then papa laughs and it's rough and low but not scary because danny knows that papa isn't scary even though he likes to pretend he is.

"Sure, kiddo. Let's go home. Ya wan' me ta carry you?"

and danny frowns. he wants papa to hug him because those kinds of hugs are always warm and tight and they make him feel safe. but he what he _really _wants is mama. because even though papa keeps him safe, mama's hugs are soft and she smells nice and her voice is quiet. mama's hugs are what keep the nightmares from getting him at bedtime and they're warm like hot chocolate, fingers through his hair and danny wants his _mama_, please.

so his too-big tongue mumbles,_ i want mama_ even though his stomach knots a little because what if he hurts papa's feelings?

danny hears something like crying behind him and he _knows _that it can't be mama because mama doesn't like crying. she's told him so. it messes up her makeup and makes her eyes burn and danny understands that, because crying makes his eyes and chest hurt too. but papa grins and a big hand ruffles his hair gently. the knot in danny's tummy gets looser even though it doesn't quite go away.

"Alright, kiddo. How's 'bout a compromise? I'll carry ya home, an' yer mama'll tuck you in. That sound good?"

that sounds nice.

danny likes when papa talks to him like a big boy. it makes him feel important, like he's not a big dumb baby who made his other mommy and daddy hate him. so danny nods and papa picks him up. the air is really cold outside of his blankies. it makes him shiver. but papa wraps him up tight again, tucks his face against the crook of his neck and danny relaxes a little bit.

papa's big and papa's strong and papa won't let anything hurt him.

even though daddy used to laugh when danny cried and daddy helped mommy hurt him and daddy laugh laugh laughed while danny cry cry cried and, no, daddy I don't understand? why aren't you helping me, daddy, please stop it hurts it hurts it hurts no

yeah, that sounds right.

danny hides his face and feels mama grab his hand. her fingers are different than papa's, that's how come he knows it's her. they're smaller and they don't have big rough patches. he thinks papa might be talking to someone but he's so _tired_ even though he feels like he's slept for a very long time? it doesn't really matter because mama kisses his forehead again and whispers that he's very good and she loves him very much.

and danny thinks he might _believe her_.

he's floating again.

bubbles floating to the top of his head and popping – pop, pop, pop – one by one until danny can barely keep his eyes open anymore and he thinks mama and papa are talking again. it sounds really far away. but it's not scary this time. danny doesn't know _why _it's not scary, but he's tired of being scared, so he doesn't really think about it because he doesn't want to. he wishes he wasn't so tired.

he misses playing games.

the world pushes

d

o

w

n

and danny feels his stomach jump into his throat. oh – that's the feeling he sometimes gets when mama gets excited and flies into the air _super fast_, so fast it makes his hair blow back and his chest catch and it's a good feeling. a happy feeling. papa must be really excited to go home. the air is cold on his ears, rushing like the bubbles in his head. he shivers a bit. the rushing gets slower and his tummy falls back to where it should be and there's a hand tucking the blankets back around his head. they're heavy and thick and danny doesn't really like the dark but there's enough light that it isn't scary.

it _isn't scary_ and danny is confused but happy?

it's hard to think about so he doesn't. he's just too tired for that.

they're flying faster than what they do at home and danny thinks it must be a really big trip because he doesn't even realize he's fallen asleep until papa hands him over to mama. he smiles and snuggles in tight and takes a big breath that doesn't hurt his chest because mama smells like _home_. the house is warm and quiet.

danny likes the quiet, but now that he thinks about it, sometimes it feels a little lonely.

he really misses jazzy.

his eyes still don't want to open so he just lets mama carry him to bed like normal. they have something called a "rit-oo-well" that she follows at bedtime every night. mama tucks him under the covers, makes sure he's covered from his toes to his chin. then she sits next to him on the bed and lets him snuggle close and she reads a story. sometimes, if he asks real nice, she'll tell him _two_. then she kisses his head and tells him that she loves him, that he's a good boy, that things are gonna get better real soon. papa comes and kisses him goodnight after mama leaves. papa likes to tell him that he's tough, that he's gonna grow up big and strong and that _no one _is ever gonna hurt him again.

sometimes, mama comes back when she thinks he's asleep and hugs him real tight.

but tonight is different.

he doesn't go to his own bed. mama carries him to papa's room instead – he can tell by the way everything smells like papa - and rocks him back and forth and back again until he's _almost _back asleep. papa brings in his pjs. they're soft. probably his spaceship ones. but he just can't keep his eyes open long enough to look so he just lets them put them on.

mama tucks him into bed. kisses his forehead. whispers she loves him, that he's very strong and very brave and that things are gonna get better soon. papa kisses the top of his head. tells him that he's tough, that no one is ever gonna hurt him again because he's _papa's _boy now, and that means he'll always be there to protect him.

danny smiles and wraps his hands around the blankie that mama uses to tuck him in. it's heavy, lots heavier than his own blankie, and it smells _just _like papa. mama gets into bed and hugs him real tight. she kisses his head again. then _papa_ gets into bed behind him. there's a big arm that wraps around him and mama and papa hugs them both real tight, kisses the back of his head.

"Love ya, punk."

"I love you, baby."

he smiles even wider because. . .

"I lub you, too, Papa. Lub you, Mama."

_he believes them_.

~*O*~

Vlad Masters did not _fidget_.

It was a behavioral tic he'd had during childhood. He tapped his fingers, bounced his knee, clicked his pens until it became distracting. Teachers had often complained of his lack of attention during lessons, prompting his mother to beat his hands with switches she'd cut from the trees outside their country home. As an adult, Vlad forced the incessant need to move down until it was nothing but a small ball in the back of his mind.

Standing outside the nurse's station, however, made the small ball of repressed energy turn into a small _ocean _of repressed energy.

He made sure that his smile remained cordial and pleasant, though internally he vowed to _ruin_ the head nurse's career. The woman was short-tempered, unpleasant, and – the worst crime of all – utterly rude. She'd steam-rolled through the discharge process as though it warranted little to no thought, dismissing many of his questions about Jasmine's dietary and supplement requirements moving forward. After the doctors had left, she'd acted as though his other questions were asinine or unintelligent in some way. It was unprofessional, unsafe, and it made his skin itch.

Nurse Vermiglio. An odd name, one his photographic memory would have no problem hanging on to for future reference.

"Sign this here and then you can take her." Vermiglio sounded _terribly_ annoyed by his intense scrutiny of the discharge paperwork and medication list. "Hospital policy says she has to leave the building in a wheelchair, but once you're outside she can do whatever. Any other questions, Mr. Masters?"

One eyebrow twitched in anger. Vlad signed the final document with an elegant flourish and offered it up to the middle-aged shrew. "No other questions, my dear. Have a _lovely _day."

Silently, Vlad made a mental note to summon some low-level brute to terrorize her.

With one last polite smile, he made his way down the corridor towards Jasmine's room. The whiteboard outside with her name was decorated with drawings of flowers, and it was obvious that the nurses – those who were actually _competent_ – had taken a shine to the child. He took a moment to straighten his tie and smooth the lapels of his suit jacket before stepping through the door.

Inside, the room had been stripped of whatever personal items Jasmine had acquired throughout her two-week hospital stay, leaving it white and sterile and bare. It sent a pang of anxiety spiraling through his stomach. Vlad smiled regardless, greeting Mr. Turner with a smile and firm handshake. Everything had been set in order. The home inspection had proceeded without issues, no spectral persuasion required, and the paperwork had been approved without hesitation. Jasmine's new room had been decorated, clothes and shoes bought, and he'd notified the school district of her new guardian status.

And it had all happened because Mr. Turner had proved himself a rare creature – a social worker who hadn't been beaten into submission by the system.

"Great to see you again, Mr. Masters," Mr. Turner greeted. "Jazz is all packed and ready to go. Nurse Miranda is fixing her hair in the bathroom one last time, then we should be set to go. Have the doctors and Nurse Vermiglio gone over her discharge instructions with you?"

Vlad nodded. "Yes. It was all very detailed. Though, Nurse Vermiglio isn't precisely the friendly sort, is she?"

It had obviously not been the first time someone had brought up the dear lady. Mr. Turner rolled his eyes and grunted in disgust. "That woman has no business being a nurse on a children's floor. Or _any _floor, really. She's dumb as a sack of hammers and meaner than a junkyard dog."

Everything in Vlad was begging him to laugh. Instead, he shook his head and plastered on what he hoped was a jovial expression. "I'm sure she was simply having a bad day. It's nothing to, oh, say, ruin her life over?"

The look Mr. Turner offered said he couldn't decide between laughing and being concerned. Vlad's smile grew wider, cheesier. He was an _expert _at this sort of interaction, the kind that made others try to figure out whether he truly was a sociopath or just an eccentric billionaire. Mr. Turner, it seemed, was one of those who decided to go with eccentric billionaire. The social worker smiled in return and laughed, scratching the back of his head with one hand.

"I wouldn't go so far as ruin her life," he conceded, "but she definitely needs someone to talk to her about her attitude. It's getting to be a problem."

Ah, humans – so gullible, so well-intentioned. It made his half-life _so _much easier.

"Yes, yes, of course! Dalv Corp prides itself on ensuring that all our staff is well-trained in customer service and positive attitudes. I'm sure the hospital is much the same. She'll be dealt with in time."

Vlad kept his tone light even as dark satisfaction built in his chest at the thought of the woman's face, crumpled in horror, when he brought her life crashing down around her ears.

He didn't have much time to dwell on the feeling, however. The bathroom door opened a second later, revealing young Jasmine in a wheelchair, a rather plump middle-aged nurse pushing her. The little girl had more color to her cheeks today. Her little face wasn't quite so sunken. But though her hair had been pulled into twin braids – laced and tied with blue ribbons – and she'd been dressed in one of the new dresses he'd bought, there was something about the girl's eyes that made him uncomfortable.

They looked too old for her face.

Nurse Miranda was smiling, lines crinkling in the corners of her eyes, but it seemed strained. She brushed her hand over the top of Jasmine's head and turned that smile to the little girl. Jasmine returned it. But the expression was flat. It didn't quite reach her eyes.

"Are you ready to go home, Jazz?" This nurse was obviously very good at her job – her tone was soft, empathetic. "It's going to be a big new adventure. And you'll get to eat something besides hospital food!"

Jasmine managed a hollow giggle that was closer to genuine. "But how is Kyle supposed to bring me candy now?"

Chuckling, the older woman pinched Jasmine's button nose gently. "Sassy little monkey! You be good for your uncle, alright?

The dead look in her eyes returned. Jasmine nodded, hugging her worn bear tight to her thin chest. He shouldn't have bought such a blue dress. It made her look horrifically pale. Still, Vlad kept his smile. Years in business had taught him the importance of an unwavering pleasant expression. Beside him, he could see Mr. Turner's buck-toothed grin fade along with the nurse's.

Vlad took his opportunity.

He stepped forward and crouched in front of the little girl. He didn't pay attention to how the seams of his tailored Louis Vuitton trousers protested the movement. They weren't his favorite pair, and money was no object. It was more important to set his new daughter at ease with his presence.

After all, they were going to be a family either way. They might as well be comfortable with one another.

"Are you ready to go, Jazz?" She didn't like her full name, though he thought it was quite beautifully chosen. "The car is ready outside."

She looked at him with big violet eyes, so much like her mother's but _not_, and nodded. Mute. Jasmine was a quiet child, he could tell. Quiet and introspective. Maddie had always possessed such an outgoing personality, even when they were children. Jack, the fat idiot, didn't have a meek bone in his body. The oaf could shatter granite with that damn voice of his. How they'd managed to have such a quiet child was beyond him.

Vlad let his smile become smaller, more private. "It'll work out in the end, _dorogoy_. You'll see. Now, shall we tell Nurse Miranda thank you and goodbye?"

Again, Jasmine nodded and turned towards the nurse standing just off to the side. "Thank you for everything, ma'am."

There were tears welling in her dark eyes, but Miranda fought them back valiantly. Her smile was wide and white against her mocha skin. She grabbed the little girl's thin hand and squeezed. "You don't have to thank me for anything, sweetie. You just go home and get better, okay?"

Jasmine squeezed back. Nodded, mute once more.

Vlad stood tall and cleared his throat. "Thank you for everything, madam. Truly."

The nurse responded with a sharp jerk of her chin and quickly left the room, obviously wiping away tears as she went. Quirking an eyebrow, Vlad rounded the back of the wheelchair and gripped the handles tightly. He could feel anxiety creeping up his spine, mounting each second spent in this _hellhole._ His palms were sweating on the cheap rubber grips.

"Alright, my dear. Let's go home, hmm?"

Having been forgotten in the goodbyes, Mr. Turner gestured for them to go first, blue eyes suspiciously wet. Vlad pushed forward without hesitation. They were on the sixth floor, far wing. It would take them approximately three minutes to go down the corridor, where they would wait anywhere from two to five minutes for an elevator to arrive. Following its arrival, the elevator's journey would last anywhere from a minute and thirty seconds to three minutes, depending on whether or not they picked up another passenger on their way down. Traveling from the elevators to the loading bay where his driver waited would take no more than two minutes – he'd timed it on the way in.

The minimum time to exit was seven minutes and thirty seconds. The maximum was thirteen minutes.

He didn't know if his heart could take thirteen more minutes in a hospital.

Thankfully, during all his mental calculations, he'd made it down the hall and an elevator had arrived. Three minutes down. Mr. Turner stepped on immediately after them, meaning that Vlad didn't have to wait around for the social worker. No one boarded the elevator on their way down. Another minute and a half gone. Some part in the back of Vlad's mind whispered that his incessant rushing might have been scaring poor Jasmine, but his anxiety was screeching warning claxons. It was hard to listen to the whispers.

Their journey through the lobby to the loading bay was uneventful, and he glanced down to see Jasmine's face when she first caught sight of the Rolls-Royce. It was the latest special edition model, customized with his family crest and black-leather seats dyed with his specific allergies in mind. The ebony and red paint shone, even in the shadowed lighting of the canopy. Most children would be excited to be riding in such an expensive car.

Jasmine simply looked overwhelmed and hopeless.

"Alright you two," Mr. Turner called. "This is the part where I wish you luck and say my goodbyes. I'll be in touch in a couple of weeks, Mr. Masters, just to see how you two are settling in." The social worker's voice softened, and he crouched to be more on-level with Jasmine in her chair. "I know this is _really_ hard, Jazz, but give it a go, okay? Things are gonna get better. You just gotta give it time. Be good for me?"

Jasmine squeezed her teddy bear tighter to her chest. "Okay, Mr. Turner. I'll be good. I promise."

Anxiety was still trying to squeeze his throat in a vice. They were too close to the hospital. Someone was going to reach out and grab them and never let them go again. They'd be stuck in those _damn_ beds again. Vlad squeezed until the wheelchair groaned in protest, the metal caving under his fingers.

"Everything's ready to go, sir." Bless Smith for his impeccable timing. "Shall I pack the little miss's things?"

Joshua Smith had been his butler for nearly five years now, and he'd proven himself to be the diligent, hard-working sort who, most importantly, knew how to keep his mouth shut and his ears open. He offered the man a nod and held out the pitifully small bag containing Jasmine's personal belongings.

"Yes, of course. Thank you, Smith."

His butler lifted an eyebrow, threaded with silver and skepticism, but didn't say a word. Rather, he took the purple bag covered with butterflies and stowed it safely in the boot. Jasmine watched him the whole time. Silent, close-lipped, and entirely too skeptical for a six-year-old child.

Children may not have been his forte, but Vlad knew that young girls were not normally so silent.

Despite the anxiety thumping in time with his pulse, he reached down and squeezed her shoulder gently. Jasmine stiffened as though ready to fend off a blow of some sort, and his heart sank. A few feet away, Mr. Turner watched and jerked his chin in a final silent goodbye. He then spun on his heel and strode back into the hospital, leaving Vlad alone with his goddaughter. Foster daughter, he supposed, was the more correct term.

All he knew was that the accusations against the Fentons _may _have been more accurate than he previously believed. And that he might have bitten off far more than he could comfortably chew.

"Would you like me to help you into the car, Jazz?" Vlad asked, removing his hand from her person.

Those big eyes turned to him again, suspicious, but Jasmine nodded regardless. Vlad rounded the wheelchair and gently, ever _so _gently, lifted her from the seat. His strength had been augmented by his ghost-powers, of course. But even without them, the child weighed next to nothing. He could feel her heartbeat flutter under his palm, tiny and frightened like a bird in a cage. Breaking her would be easy. He could do it without thinking, carelessly, accidentally.

Saliva turning thick in his mouth, Vlad carefully deposited the little girl into the car-seat his secretary had purchased for the occasion. There were too many damn _buckles _on the thing, and he muttered angrily to himself in Russian until he finally go Jasmine safely secured. Smith had just come back from returning the wheelchair when he finished, and Vlad settled himself in the seat across from his new charge as his butler slid into the driver's seat. The car pulled out of the hospital and onto the road, purring quietly.

Jasmine looked over at him with frank curiosity, which was a welcome change to the dead, suspicious expressions she'd been pinning him with all morning. "What was that language you were talking in a second ago?"

It was a well-worded question. Jasmine was quite eloquent for such a young child – Maddie's influence, to be sure. "My family is from Russia, and it was what my mother and father spoke around the house when I was a child. English is actually my second language."

She quirked her head, and the ribbons woven through her red hair caught the morning sunlight. "Really? How many languages can you speak in?"

Vlad could feel a smile, genuine for once, forming as she asked. "I speak four languages fluently: Russian, English, German, and Polish. I am conversational in Japanese, French, and Spanish. I have just begun learning to speak Mandarin."

He decided to forgo telling her that he was also _very_ familiar with Esperanto, which was what most Ancient ghosts and specters spoke. Best not to frighten the child on her first day home.

Little brow furrowed in though, Jasmine asked another question. "What does 'fluent' mean?"

"It means I can speak the language very well without stumbling over my words or thinking about what I have to say. Conversational means that I know enough to ask for simple things, but I still have to think about what I'm going to say in certain situations."

Jasmine's little sneakers – white with purple laces – bounced quickly against the leather interior. Which was _expensive_ and _leather_. But, somehow, Vlad couldn't find it in himself to be angry with her. She'd been through quite an ordeal, after all. And besides, what were a few scuff marks when he could have an intelligent, albeit simplified, conversation with someone new?

"There's a girl in my class," Jasmine said quietly, "that speaks Spanish. Her mommy and daddy are from Columbia. That's in South America."

"Oh? Has she taught you any words? Learning different languages is quite useful, especially when you're young. It helps your brain grow."

For a second, Jasmine's expression closed off, and it was startling because it reminded Vlad of himself when he looked in the mirror. Then the child shrugged her tiny shoulders and began toying with a loose thread on her bear's laboratory coat.

"No," she stated simply. "Paulina only teaches Spanish to her friends. She and I aren't friends."

Oh, she even used proper _grammar_! "Really? I would imagine you would have lots of friends. You're very smart."

Again, Jasmine shook her head and shrugged. "I only have Dash. He's my best friend. The other kids don't like me very much. I guess it's 'cause I don't think the way they do. And besides, I'm not _that _smart. I can't do math very well. The numbers get all jumbly on pages, and sometimes I can't tell which number is greater than another."

How curious. Mr. Turner had never mentioned that the girl had dyscalculia. It was a rather uncommon learning disorder. At least, uncommon to have a definitive diagnosis of. Come to think of it, Maddie had never been the best at math when they were younger, though she'd eventually learned to work around her hang-ups.

It was the most Jasmine had ever spoken to him at once, and Vlad found his heart doing an odd sort of leap in his chest. As they made their way down the long drive towards his Amity Park home, the billionaire felt a pang of _something_ that made him question whether or not this was a good decision. There were shady characters passing to and from his home, both of the ghost and human variety. Would Maddie _really _appreciate him exposing her daughter to such things, precocious and observant as she was?

"Do. . . do you think you could teach me how to speak Russian, Uncle Vlad?" The question almost went unheard, quiet and timid as it was, and Jasmine refused to look him in the eye as she voiced it.

Vlad felt himself smile again. A true, genuine smile. "Of course, _malyshka_. I would be honored."

Her head jerked up, expression wide-eyed and disbelieving. "What does 'm-malishka' mean?"

She stumbled over the pronunciation, and her accent was _atrocious_, but it was a valiant effort. Vlad chuckled.

"It means 'little one'. That is how you will be learning, if you wish. I will speak to you in Russian, and you will ask me questions about what it means. Is that alright with you?"

Jasmine nodded, the tiniest spark of life coming to light in the back of her eyes, and smiled. "That sounds amazing!"

The something in his chest melted, and Vlad recoiled from his own emotions. Looking at those big eyes, _Maddie's_ eyes, he realized that there was _nothing_ this child requested that he would not deliver. He was putty. He was goo.

"We've arrived, sir."

He was _fucked_.

**A/N:**

**GUESS WHO PASSED FINALS FUCKERS?!**

**In case y'all were guessing, it's me. I passed finals. I'm dead on the inside. But I fucking passed so HA! The universe can suck a bag of elephant dicks. **

**Okay, so this chapter has been another month in the making, and for that I'm sorry. It took a shit-ton of writing and re-writing to get each segment exactly where I wanted it to be, and I'm working without a beta reader so it's a bit more challenging to get everything lined-out spelling and grammar-wise. Thankfully, the only POV change that is sort of challenging to write is Danny's, and he's in a funky drugged-up euphoria (in case you couldn't tell by his lack of freak-out) so that was nice. **

**Vlad's section was honestly SUCH a treat for me as an author. He's one of those characters that had so much potential for complexity in the original show, especially concerning backstory, intelligence, and personal interactions with other characters. And the third season (and some of the second half of season two) fucked that potential right up the anus, so I wanted to explore it here. Because fuck you, I guess. Because of his potential, I really want to flesh out his interactions with Jazz. At this point in time, she's endearing to him simply because he sees her as an extension of Maddie, whom he idolizes and idealizes. BUT as he spends more and more time with her, her own personality is something that he's going to have to contend with and recognize.**

**Jazz is NOT Maddie, and Maddie is NOT perfect, and that is something that Vlad is going to have to come to terms with before he can stop being an actual fuckass. **

**ANYWHORE, once again I would like to thank you all for sticking with me for this long. Your comments and constructive criticisms have been so helpful and amazing. I couldn't have made it this far without you. Please, leave whatever remarks you wish - questions, theories for the future, and characterization details included - in the comments and I'll try to respond to them if possible. **

**I'll see you guys in the next chapter!**


	16. Chapter 16

Be Jazz Fenton.

Uncle Vlad is here to take you home. _His _home, not your home, because Mommy and Daddy have been naughty and they're in grown-up time out. Hitting and yelling aren't okay. Calling names and throwing things isn't okay. That's what the policemen said, that's what Nurse Miranda says, and that's what the funny man Mr. Turner brings to talk to you sometimes says. His name is Mr. Spelka, like Danny's teacher, and he laughed when you first blurted that and said she's his youngest daughter. The last time Mr. Spelka came to talk, he asked you how you were feeling. And you did a very bad thing.

You lied and said you were alright, that everything was fine and you would be okay.

Lying is wrong, Jasmine Fenton, and you know this.

But you do it anyway.

You're sad, see, because _everyone _keeps telling you it's going to be okay, things are going to get better, you'll have a great life, Jazz, just give it time. Except your Mommy hates you and Daddy is still yelling mean things in the back of your mind and Danny hasn't come home yet. You can't tell them that Danny isn't _ever_ going to come home. Because you don't know that. Not really. Except you do deep in your tummy.

It's been so _long_ and Danny hasn't come home isn't coming home ever and nothing's okay.

Except Uncle Vlad isn't quite as scary now. His eyes are still too blue and he still moves like a shadow, quick and quiet and Not Right. But when he looks at you it's not like being under a microscope this time. Like a puzzle piece that doesn't quite fit the hole. Uncle Vlad looks a little awkward this time, a little like he doesn't know what to do with himself.

You understand that. People are scary sometimes. Nurse Miranda talked to you when she did your hair this morning. She bought blue ribbons, the color of the sky outside with no clouds in sight, just for you. Her fingers are short and sometimes they pull but she doesn't mean to hurt you, just doesn't remember that your head isn't as tough as her grand-daughter Valerie's is. But as she braided, she told you that sometimes, life isn't fair. Sometimes, life is very hard, and little girls are put in places that that aren't always the best fit for them. She looks at you with dark serious eyes and says that you are strong, that you are smart, that you are wise.

She says that you can survive _anything_ and that she believes in you.

Then she hugs you tight, so tight you can't breathe, and kisses you on the forehead and tries not to cry. Lots of people do that around you now, try not to cry, except for maybe Uncle Vlad.

Uncle Vlad just looks nervous. It's something about his fingers, the way they shake against his pants and stay too stiff, like he's trying not to move them. He's still smiling at you, just like he did the first time you met. Except this time the smile is a little cracked at the edges, too many lines around his eyes and the corners of his lips pulled too far across his teeth, which are very white and pointy.

A hand brushes over the top of your head, smoothing out your braids, and you look up at Nurse Miranda. She's still trying not to cry. That's sad. But she's smiling anyway.

""Are you ready to go home, Jazz? It's going to be a big new adventure. And you'll get to eat something besides hospital food!"

She's trying _so hard_ to make you laugh, to make you smile.

Be Jazz Fenton.

Laugh even though it hurts your chest and smile even though it doesn't feel right and ask Nurse Miranda, "But how is Kyle supposed to bring me candy now?"

Kyle is a helper at the hospital, a very nice man who comes and reads to the kids on the floor. He's got Down's Syndrome, which means he's not quite smart like other grown-ups, but he listens and smiles and gives the _best_ hugs. Tight and warm and they make you feel warm all over. You're his favorite and he's your favorite, too. He brings you Hershey bars, the big ones with almonds in them.

But Uncle Vlad doesn't know that.

He just looks confused.

The smile on Nurse Miranda's face is more real now, you think. She doesn't look about to cry anymore. Which is a good thing. You hate it when grown-ups cry because you're not allowed to cry because it makes you feel bad for making it happen. She pinches you on your nose – gently, never trying to hurt you on purpose – and laughs.

"Sassy little monkey!" You're sassy but not a monkey, Nurse Miranda, that's silly. "You be good for your uncle, alright?"

Be good for your uncle, Jazz. Don't cry so much, Jazz. It'll get better soon, Jazz.

Don't you dare tell, Jazz, it was an accident, Jazz, it was a ghost, Jazz, they're evil, Jazz, listen to your father and I, Jazz don't tell don't tell keep the secret accident don't tell don't tell don't tell

You're so _tired_.

Hug Bearbert Einstein and think about the little elephant with soft ears in your backpack. Dash gave him to you. He's very special, so you have to think of a special name for him. It hasn't come to you yet. So you keep Bearbert to introduce to Uncle Vlad and leave your special elephant in the bag and play with the edges of your new dress. It's very pretty, blue like your ribbons, and it goes good with your hair. Uncle Vlad knew better than to get pink, which is ugly on you like everything else.

Something deep down wonders if you deserve new dresses, ribbons in your hair, shoes on your feet.

No one is smiling anymore. Not Nurse Miranda, not Mr. Turner, not even Uncle Vlad. Then he crouches down in front of you, where you sit in your wheelchair because you're small and weak and your legs don't always work right anymore. He smiles, and this time it's a little warmer, a little smaller. Just for you.

"Are you ready to go, Jazz? The car is waiting outside."

Uncle Vlad has a strange kind of voice. Deep but not really? Somewhere in the middle, like it's trying to be both. But he's quiet and it's not _bad_ to listen to. Try to answer. Except the words get stuck in your throat, jumbled and jagged like numbers on a page and you just _can't_ make them into noise. Nod instead, it's easier. It's less dangerous.

Be Jazz Fenton.

Watch your Uncle Vlad's smile be _real_. It's a little sad and looks like he feels a little sorry for you but it's _real _and just for you. The knot that's in your chest gets looser.

"It'll be alright in the end, _dorogoy_. You'll see. Now, shall we tell Nurse Miranda thank you and goodbye?"

There's a strange word at the end of one of his sentences, something you can't make your head wrap around. But even though you want to _scream_ that nothing was ever going to be alright again because grown-ups can be so _dumb_, you know that manners are important. Nurse Miranda has been so nice to you even though you're not sure you deserve it all. Turn to her and find your words again.

"Thank you for everything, ma'am."

Manners are _important_. You always call grown-up ladies "ma'am" – it's something Aunt Alicia taught you. Except you must've done it wrong because Nurse Miranda is trying not to cry again. Except she's smiling again, too, and she reaches out to squeeze your hand. Very gentle. Her fingers are warm and the skin is cracked in some places.

"You don't have to thank me for anything, sweetie. You just go home and get better, okay?"

Feel your throat squeeze until you can't breathe anymore. Blink too fast. Your eyes are wet. You're not allowed to cry anymore. Mommy said so. And even if Mommy's in grown-up time-out, you should still listen to the rules, right? You don't cry, right? So squeeze her hand back and nod again. The words keep sticking.

You want to say something. Anything. But you can't.

Danny's gone Danny's not coming back it's never gonna be okay again why can't you see that?

The grown-ups are talking again, but it's too close and very far away. Mr. Turner is watching Uncle Vlad real close. That's his job, see. He's meant to make sure that you stay taken care of and healthy and happy. Even though you're not ever really happy. Even though he had to take you from Mommy and Daddy. He's a nice man, Mr. Turner. So watch him close right back and try not to flinch when Uncle Vlad grips the handles of your wheelchair too tight. They're creaking. It's too close.

Daddy used to do that sometimes and you don't _like_ that sound.

"Alright, my dear. Let's go home, hmm?"

Oh – Uncle Vlad is talking to you again.

The wheels roll under you and you're moving. Down the hall, too fast, too soon, towards the elevators. Squeeze Bearbert tight to your chest and kiss his head. Uncle Vlad's steps are very loud behind you. They tap-tap-tap on the tiles of the floor. You think Mr. Turner is following close, and when the elevator lets them in, he's right there. Uncle Vlad is shifting behind you. Back and forth and back again.

Maybe he doesn't like hospitals, either.

You don't blame him – they smell bad and people are always so _sick_.

The elevator ride isn't long. That's sad and happy. Sad because that means you're going to go fast again, tap-tap-tapping across the floor as Uncle Vlad's hands squeeze the handles of your chair too tight. Happy because you're finally, _finally_, going to be outside again. You're tired of hospital air and hospital food and hospital beds. You're tired.

The door opens. Uncle Vlad moves, Mr. Turner behind him, and you hold Bearbert tighter and tighter as you cross the big open floors towards the big glass doors. Everything is big and you are small. Sunlight is brighter than you remember, and so is the air. But it smells so _good_. Fresh. Clean. It's shady outside this door, and you're looking at a car that's much fancier than you were expecting.

Uncle Vlad always looks very nice but you didn't think he was _rich?_

Be Jazz Fenton.

Look at that very-expensive car and know that everything is changing. Try not to cry because you're not allowed.

"Alright you two. This is the part where I wish you luck and say my goodbyes. I'll be in touch in a couple of weeks, Mr. Masters, just to see how you two are settling in." Mr. Turner is a very nice man and his smile is kind when he crouches to look at you better. "I know this is _really_ hard, Jazz, but give it a go, okay? Things are gonna get better. You just gotta give it time. Be good for me?"

Things are gonna get better, Jazz. You've gotta give it time, Jazz. Be good, Jazz.

Why can't you just be _you_? Is that so bad? Why aren't you allowed to be mad, be sad, be confused? You don't _want _to be good right now but you're scared to be anything _but _good and nothing makes sense anymore. So you just nod and answer him like a good little girl.

"Okay, Mr. Turner. I'll be good. I promise."

Mommy, I won't tell, I promise. Daddy, I won't tell, I promise. Danny, I'll be back, I promise.

There's another man coming around the car. He's dressed like butlers from your cartoons. Tall and skinny and bald. His eyebrows and mustache are silver, kind of like Uncle Vlad's hair. Except it's not shiny silver, more gray-white. He talks to Uncle Vlad and takes your bag and puts it in the trunk of the Very Nice Car. Mr. Turner is still looking at you. So is Uncle Vlad.

You wish they would stop.

A hand reaches down and squeezes your shoulder and your heart sinks. Did you do something wrong? Did you say something you weren't supposed to? You don't know. You can't think straight. Mommy squeezes your shoulder when it's time to _shut up_ and that's how you know to drop your head and be quiet for once, Jasmine, can't you do anything right?! It's scary, waiting for when it's going to hurt. Didn't Uncle Vlad say that things would be _better_? Is this better?

Then the hand goes away without hurt and you look up. Uncle Vlad looks confused again, and his eyes aren't so scary anymore. They're actually kind of a pretty color. Like his hair.

"Would you like me to help you into the car, Jazz?"

He's trying too hard. Something's wrong. You just don't know what yet. Nod anyway. Hold tight to Bearbert when Uncle Vlad picks you up. He holds you like you're going to break. You don't know really what to think about that. He's gentle when he sits you down, too, and it's kind of funny that he can't quite make the buckles work. The words that come out of his mouth sound grumpy and not English. You don't know what they are, but it reminds you of Paulina, who sometimes starts speaking Spanish when she gets upset.

Finally, the buckles are done. Uncle Vlad gets in the seat next to you and the other man – you think his name is Mr. Smith – starts driving. The car moves very smoothly. Watch the world outside move by and think how _different_ everything is. Think about the words that Uncle Vlad were speaking a minute ago. Ask before your brain can think to stop itself.

"What was that language you were talking in a second ago?"

Sometimes, people are scary. And sometimes, people surprise you. This time, Uncle Vlad surprises you. He smiles, laughs a little. Answers your question like it doesn't bother him a bit.

"My family is from Russia, and it was what my mother and father spoke around the house when I was a child. English is actually my second language."

Huh – but he sounds just like you? Paulina still has an accent when she speaks English.

"Really?" Your mouth won't shut up. "How many languages can you speak in?"

Uncle Vlad is a grown-up, has silver hair, so he must be very old and know lots of different things. He doesn't disappoint you.

"I speak four languages fluently: Russian, English, German, and Polish. I am conversational in Japanese, French, and Spanish. I have just begun learning to speak Mandarin."

This time, when Uncle Vlad smiles, it's _nice_. It curls up a little at the edges and his eyes twinkle, if that's the right word for it. It makes your chest feel warm because he looks _impressed _by you. Most grown-ups just look annoyed when you start asking questions. Not Nurse Miranda or Mr. Turner, but they were different. Maybe Uncle Vlad's different, too? He can be scary, and he moves too shadow-quick, but there's something in _this _smile you like.

But there's a word he said you don't understand. You _need _to understand. You don't like not knowing things. "What does 'fluent' mean?"

"It means I can speak the language very well without stumbling over my words or thinking about what I have to say. Conversational means that I know enough to ask for simple things, but I still have to think about what I'm going to say in certain situations."

Oh! Uncle Vlad _is _different. He doesn't talk to you like you're a baby. Like you don't understand. Like you're dumb. He talks to you like you're a grown-up, too, and you understand the words he uses even though he sounds a little like an old movie character. Swing your legs back and forth and think about how to answer. Come up with something. Think hard on it. You don't _like_ talking about her, but. . .

"There's a girl in my class that speaks Spanish. Her mommy and daddy are from Columbia. That's in South America."

You know this because you got 100 on your countries test in Social Studies. Uncle Vlad raises his eyebrows and leans a little closer. This time, he doesn't scare you. It's kind of nice.

"Oh? Has she taught you any words? Learning different languages is quite useful, especially when you're young. It helps your brain grow."

Yes. She's taught you the words for "stupid" and "freak" and "ugly" and one other thing that you're not quite sure what it means, but you think it's got some naughty words in it. Paulina is very mean. You don't understand why. But she _is_.

"No," you tell Uncle Vlad, "Paulina only teaches Spanish to her friends. She and I aren't friends."

You aren't. You're very much _not _friends. But Uncle Vlad doesn't need to know how much of a freak you are just yet. His eyebrows raise again, surprised.

"Really? I would imagine you would have lots of friends. You're very smart."

Being smart doesn't mean you're good at making friends. The other kids do such silly things sometimes, and you don't understand, which means they make fun of you because you don't. Everyone makes fun of you except for Dash, and that's because Dash is special. Try to forget that he used to make fun of you, too.

Shrug. Pull at a loose thread on Bearbert's coat. Answer without crying. That last part is very important.

"I only have Dash. He's my best friend. The other kids don't like me very much. I guess it's 'cause I don't think the way they do. And besides, I'm not _that _smart. I can't do math very well. The numbers get all jumbly on pages, and sometimes I can't tell which number is greater than another."

You don't know why you told him that. It doesn't make any sense. Now he'll _know _you're a freak and he'll send you back and you'll live with Mommy and Daddy when they get out of grown-up time-out and you're not sure you _want _to go back. . .

Except Uncle Vlad doesn't look confused or disgusted or upset. He just looks curious. Like he's trying to come up with the answer to a hard question. Swallow your spit even though it feels like cement. Try to ignore the question bubbling up in the back of your throat. Even though it itches and you _really_ want an answer. No one ever gives you answers anymore but _maybe _Uncle Vlad will?

"Do. . . do you think you could teach me how to speak Russian, Uncle Vlad?"

It slips out. You weren't ready. But it's out in the open and you can't shove the words back down your throat. So you stare at him and try to keep your heart in your chest instead of in your mouth. It's not quite working. But here you are.

Except. . . .

"Of course, _malyshka_. I would be honored."

Uncle Vlad doesn't look mad. Or frustrated. Or bored. He _smiles _at you and this time it twinkles in his eyes and they're not so scary anymore. They're kind of lonely? Kind of excited? It's hard to put your finger on.

"What does 'm-malishka' mean?"

The word feels thick and clunky in your mouth and you're sure that it sounded nothing like what Uncle Vlad had said. But he chuckles a little anyway. Smiles like you've done something that's made him proud. This is something new. You're not quite sure what to make of it.

"It means 'little one'. That is how you will be learning, if you wish. I will speak to you in Russian, and you will ask me questions about what it means. Is that alright with you?" His voice is quiet and deep, and now that you're listening close, you can hear a slight raspy accent just on the edges.

This is all so _different _than what you were expecting.

Smile. Swing your feet. Feel the excitement beat on the inside of your ribcage. "That would be amazing!"

Uncle Vlad's eyes look a little panicked now, kind of like that time when Daddy shoved you in the water without your water-wings at the pool on accident. Maybe he's just as confused and scared by all this as you? That doesn't make a lot of sense because grown-ups can be dumb, but Uncle Vlad knows lots of languages and has very nice things, so that means he has to be smart, right? Except even grown-ups get scared sometimes, that's what Mr. Spelka told you last time he visited.

Being scared is something you know all about.

"We've arrived, sir."

Be Jazz Fenton.

Let Uncle Vlad pick you up out of the car and stare up at the biggest house you've ever seen. Know that this is supposed to somehow be yours, even though it isn't. Half-listen as he walks through a door taller than him, talking about something, and realize that he's being very careful not to hurt you. Look at the big glass cases on the walls, full of football jerseys and posters. Hold tight as Uncle Vlad walks up stairs with thick green carpet.

Try not to cry when he opens a door and says, "This is your new room."

It's. . .

It's _amazing_, with a big white canopy bed and a desk and lots of books on the bookshelves that you haven't read yet. The curtains are pretty, pale purple and the walls are painted blue like the sky with puffy clouds way up high, and the pillows on your bed look like you could disappear into them. There are toys in the corner, stuffed animals a chest at the foot of your new bed.

This is all for _you_?

Uncle Vlad looks a little nervous. He asks if you like it.

Do the only thing you can do without crying. Hug him tight around the neck and sniffle even though your nose is getting all stuffy and say, "Thank you" over and over until the words run together. Uncle Vlad holds you tighter. Rubs a big hand up your back. His voice rumbles in your ear. He smells good.

Be Jazz Fenton.

Hold Uncle Vlad and Bearbert and try not to cry because. . . .

You don't deserve _any _of this.

Danny's never coming back, is he?

~*O*~

Walker tapped his foot against the ice-slick floor and made a conscious effort to not grind his teeth to dust in his jaw.

This place was _awful_.

Sure, the people were nice enough – hairy, loud, and somewhat smelly, but nice – and they'd been more than accommodating. But the cold was enough to drive a man to drink, and even though he shouldn't have been looking a gift horse in the mouth, the boots Frostbite had lent him were friggin' heavy. They were smothering his feet.

"Would you cut that shit out? You're giving me a migraine."

And then there was Spectra.

Sighing, he cracked his knuckles one more time and went to sit back down next to her on the couch. They'd woken up about three hours ago, curled up like a couple of kittens with a hot-water bottle. And, apparently, that hadn't been enough time to snuff-out Spectra's embarrassment over the whole thing. She'd thrown a scalded-dog fit when he tried to ask why she kept stealing the covers. Why she kept her hands hidden from him for the first hour.

Frankly, he didn't really want to know – his head was killing him.

The flashbacks did that sometimes.

"Frostbite said we'd be able to see him in less than an hour," he grumbled.

Spectra rolled her eyes. It let him see the dried mascara that she hadn't been able to scrub away from earlier. "That was _forty-five minutes ago_, Tex. You're such a grandma sometimes."

He snorted. "Least I don' look like a 'coon. Ya missed a spot. Or thirty."

Ah – he might not've always been quick on the draw, but there was nothing more satisfying than beating her at her own game. Which was petty and childish. But Walker couldn't help but grin as he watched Spectra puff up like an old wet hen. Somehow, in the last several hours, everything had changed. But, at the same time, nothing had. Not really.

"Why the fuck do I even try with you?!" Spectra growled. "Jesus Christ, get the fuck off my couch before I smack you."

She started rubbing at the skin around her eyes again, about half-frantic, and Walker felt a curl of remorse form in his chest. He put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed gently.

"Aww, c'mon, I didn' mean nothin' by it," he coaxed. "It's jus' been a heckuva day an' we didn' get long enough of a nap."

It was true. He felt like someone had taken him out back and sandpapered him. Judging by the way Spectra glowered at him and huddled against his side regardless, she felt about the same. Her arms wrapped tight around his left bicep and squeezed, fingers digging in through his old flannel shirt. They both smelled like menthols from that dang jacket.

"You might have a point," she rasped, "other than the one on top of your head. But that doesn't mean I'm not still mad at you."

Walker chuckled. "Fair point, sugar."

They lapsed into silence for about the thirtieth time that day, listening to Frostbite and his doctors move around Danny and his de-icing chamber. Their voices were quiet, gruff, and growling. Sometimes, the words they used didn't even sound like English, which was entirely possible. But listening to that made Walker anxious. Being anxious made him antsy. Hence, the foot tapping.

It was a vicious cycle.

"Do you think Danny's going to be okay?" Spectra's voice was soft, barely more than a whisper, but it seemed to echo in his head. "He's so _little_, I just. . . Frostbite told me that he was almost too far gone help and now everything's ass-backwards. It's got my stomach in knots."

Well, that would explain the massive amount of mascara still clinging to her cheeks. He could feel the warmth of her cheek against his shoulder, the way her fingers dug in to him. She was shaking a bit. And Walker – exhausted and still a bit disoriented from his earlier episode – didn't blame her. At all. Pain in the rear she might've been, but she and Danny were attached at the hip for the most part, and he'd seen the panic in her eyes when they couldn't get the little boy to calm down.

A lump formed in the back of his throat. The static was starting to creep back into his head again, sparks flying down his arms and legs and making everything _heavy_. His skin itched. Walker swallowed, mouth suddenly dry, and responded the only way he knew how.

"He's gonna be fine, sugar. Danny's tougher'n we give 'im credit for. Keep yer chin up."

Chin up. Yeah, that was _sound _friggin' advice coming from the man who'd driven them to a place where it was hog-killing weather constantly without shoes. Because he'd gotten scared.

Seemed to work, though, because Penelope nodded against his shoulder. Her grip on his bicep loosened a bit. Walker glanced down and frowned. Her right hand was bruised. _Badly_. In the shape of a bite-mark, no less, dug into the knuckles until he was certain that it had been a wound at one point.

He was about to open his mouth to say something – anything, really – when Frostbite stomped into the room. Penelope was on her feet in a second. Walker followed right behind, fists clenching and relaxing over and over again.

"Young Danny has been removed from the chamber," Frostbite rumbled. "He is being dried and dressed as we speak and should be waking up in a few minutes. Follow me – I will take you to him."

Anxiety thrumming in his core, Walker followed just behind Penelope, idly noting the way her fingers were shaking. Frostbite led them to another room near the de-icing chamber, smaller and dim compared to the one they'd been staying in. A couple of other frost-monsters were huddled around a table, removing equipment and growling to each other in Esperanto, and then there was Danny. Tiny and white and breakable, nestled tight in a thick bundle of furry blankets. He was still sleeping and pale as ever. But his color was much better, and he didn't seem to be in pain.

Walker let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. His core wasn't trying to choke him anymore. So that was a start. Penelope rushed forward, shoving one monster (who hadn't moved quick enough) out of the way to stand near Danny. She was frowning, lower lip trapped between her teeth, and reached out to stroke a hand through the little boy's hair. He and Frostbite watched from the doorway for a moment.

For once, Walker didn't trust himself not to break his boy.

"Danny is very strong, warden," Frostbite praised. "You should be proud of him. I have seen adult ghosts fight half as hard as he did to pull through."

Nodding, Walker swallowed and ignored how dry his mouth was. "He's a fighter, alright. Dunno what we would'a done if he wasn't."

The giant fluffy monster quirked an eyebrow at him but had the common decency not to say anything else. "We had to sedate young Danny in order to transfer him into the chamber. He will be groggy and disoriented when he wakes up, and you will want to let him sleep once you arrive back to your lair. However, there should be no lasting side-effects."

Made sense. Sedation had always made him sick as a dog when he was alive, but at least Danny would be able to rest good and proper when they got home. Poor little guy didn't sleep enough as it was. Too many nightmares.

"Thanks again, Frostbite. For everything."

"Think nothing of it, my friend. Now, I will leave you to be with your family. Young Spectra could use some support, though she may not ask for it."

Walker nodded absently before the words registered. By the time it all sunk in, Frostbite had gone, leaving him a spluttering mess in a room with his unconscious kid and _Penelope_, who hadn't even bothered to look up from Danny as everyone else fled.

Family?! Sure, he had his kids, but Penelope wasn't really part of his family, was she? They could barely stand each other on a good day. Not to mention he'd pretty much kidnapped and threatened her into helping him with Danny in the first place. So what if he'd gotten used to finding her clothes in his hamper and her makeup in his bathroom, even though the lighting was _perfectly fine_ in the other one. So what if he'd started making his queso with extra green tomatoes because he knew she'd sneak some and it was her favorite? So what if he didn't know _what _he'd do with Danny without her help?

And so what if the thought of her going back to Bertrand made his jaw clench and his stomach knot on itself?

That didn't mean _jack_.

"Walker, get over here, he's waking up."

Penelope's voice broke through the static, and Walker rushed to stand next to her. Danny looked so _small_ on the table, surrounded by fur and fluffy pillows though he was. A little frown creased his boy's forehead.

"Danny? Baby, can you hear me?" Penelope coaxed gently, soothing her hand through his hair.

A tiny whine escaped Danny. Walker thought his chest was going to explode. It took another minute or two, he and Penelope both quietly trying to coax their boy to consciousness, but then something amazing happens. Danny _woke up_, eyelids dragging themselves up just far enough to see the solid pits of ectoplasm in his eye-sockets. He said something, garbled by his damaged vocal-cords and exhaustion, but it was enough to convince them both he was okay.

It was like someone popping a balloon. All the tension in his shoulders flooded away, and Walker felt himself sag forward in relief for the first time all day. Penelope choked out something between a laugh and a sob. She leaned forward and kissed Danny hard on the forehead, still carding one hand through his hair.

"Hi, baby!" she cooed. "Are you feeling better?"

Feeling better. Little punk had to have been feeling _so _much better. The happy little noise he'd made when Penelope kissed him was proof enough of that. Gently, Walker reached out and tilted Danny's face to look at him, grinning even though his eyes were burning and his chest ached.

"Hey, punk. Ya scared the bejeezus outta us, ya know that?" _That _was an understatement – he hadn't had a flashback episode in nearly twenty years. "Are ya feelin' better?"

Okay, so maybe Pen had just asked him that, but Danny hadn't responded. Frostbite had said he'd be groggy from the sedative. Maybe repeating questions would be better at this stage? Danny blinked up at him, tiny throat working as he swallowed, and Walker never thought he'd be so relieved to see a sleepy toddler staring up at him. Slowly, the little boy nodded, leaning into his hand, and he stroked his thumb over a thin cheek. There was just a _touch _of baby-fat beginning to line it.

Danny swallowed one more time, then opened his mouth and said, "Papa, c'n we g'home now?"

Walker thought his chest was going to explode. He had to look like a fool, mouth open and eyes bugged out, but he just couldn't be bothered to care.

Papa. . .

Danny had called him _Papa_.

His hands were shaking again, and he was sure that he couldn't have stopped grinning if he'd wanted to. And _no_, there were _not _tears in his eyes. He wasn't crying. It was just. . . too warm in this room. Yeah, that was it. A laugh escaped. Walker found that he couldn't be bothered to care about that, either.

"Sure, kiddo. Let's go home. Ya wan' me ta carry you?"

Danny's eyelids fluttered, and a little frown creased his brow again. Penelope smoothed it with her thumb, and Walker tried to ignore how the spark of pain in her eyes made core ache. Another swallow, convulsive. The frown got deeper even with Penelope soothing it.

Then Danny mumbled, "I wan' Mama."

Oh, maybe he _could _grin wider.

Penelope froze, and her eyes probably could've made good-sized dinner plates. Then they started to water. And then she was _crying_, fat tears rolling down her cheeks, and even though this was a happy moment, Walker was just Not Ready for something like that. It was his greatest weakness – watching a woman cry left him all cut up like a boardinghouse pit. Penelope stepped out of Danny's line of sight, chest hitching in big sobs, and scrubbed hard at her eyes.

_You okay_? he mouthed, hand ruffling Danny's hair.

Still crying, Penelope nodded, waving him off even as she sniffled. Walker shook his head and grinned again.

"Alright, kiddo. How's 'bout a compromise?" Compromises were a guardian's greatest asset, he'd found. "I'll carry ya home an' yer mama'll tuck you in. Sound good?"

Danny looked about half-drunk, but his thin face broke into a smile that could've lit up a room. He nodded, eyelids dropping and dragging themselves open a few seconds later. Penelope was still trying to get herself together, so Walker started tucking the blankets further around Danny's thin frame. Wouldn't do to get him all thawed out just to let him freeze on the way home. As he hauled the little boy up against his chest, he marveled at how _light_ the kid still was. It felt like holding up a doll.

Shivering, Danny burrowed tighter against him, and Walker grinned when Penelope finally made her way back over to them. She gripped their boy's hand, thumb running over the back of his tiny knuckles, and craned up against his shoulder to kiss Danny's forehead. He could just make out her whispering under her breath, telling Danny how good he was, how much they loved him. And he couldn't disagree with a single word she said.

God Almighty, they were _co-parenting_.

"Ready ta go, sugar?"

Penelope looked up at him and nodded. She looked like she'd been chewed up, spit out, and stepped on. Not that he'd ever tell _her _that, of course. She'd probably snatch him bald, bad as her temper was. Still, they were all three dog-tired.

It was time to head home.

~*O*~

"For the love of God, sit _down_, Johnny! You're going to wake poor Taylor up."

The _only _reason he stopped pacing was so he could turn around and glare at Kitty. "_Seriously_?! Kitten, he's been a nervous wreck since Pops left with Danny! He nervoused himself to sleep! It'd take a hurricane to wake him up at this point."

Sipping at her cup of coffee – how the actual _fuck _she'd managed to find Pops' secret stash of the good stuff was beyond him – Kitty fixed him with a Look. The kind of Look that made him want to either throttle her or apologize for being a dumbass. Generally, it was a mixture of the two. He only ever apologized, though.

Johnny scrubbed his hands through his hair and groaned. One of the ancient kitchen chairs did the same thing when he slumped down into it, face in his palms.

"Has it been eternity yet?" he mumbled. "I'd kinda dig goin' to Hell right about now."

Kitty snorted at him, and he felt her fingers start massaging at the back of his neck. "Fat chance of that, Johnny. You'd pussy out at the gate. Besides, can you imagine what your dad would do if he figured out you left Tay here _alone_?"

It was enough to make his face pale in fear.

"Okay, so that'd be bad," Johnny muttered. "But is'not like I'd leave him here _alone_-alone. Em's still here. Did Skulker finally fuck off to his island?"

Kitty rolled her eyes and took another sip of her coffee. "Johnny, Skulker _and _Ember have been gone for, like, three hours already. Don't you _ever _pay attention to anything?"

He didn't really mean to grin, but that didn't stop him from peeking up at her from between his fingers. "Not if I can help it, kitten."

She reached out and smacked him hard on the shoulder, but he could tell she wasn't _really_ mad at him. Johnny snatched her coffee mug from the table and downed a big swig – _that_ was probably gonna make her mad, though. The second blow was a bit harder than the first, aimed for the bony point of his shoulder, and it hurt like a motherfucker.

But _coffee_. . .

"Hey, hey, hey!" Johnny chuckled. "Quit it, or you're gonna wake up Tay!"

Glaring at him – God, she was pretty when she was mad – Kitty snatched back her mug and hunched over it. "You're such a fucking ass, Johnny! You're the one who wouldn't shut up five seconds ago!"

Still laughing, Johnny scrubbed his hands through his hair again. He glanced up at the old clock above the door-frame. Almost eleven at night. Well, eleven at night Zone-time. Did the Far-Frozen run on Zone-time like this lair did? God, this place was fucking weird. Shit made his head hurt.

"Do you think they're gonna come home tonight?" he rasped. "Pops doesn't like stayin' out late, especially when shit's gone and hit the fan."

The frown on Kitty's face dissolved into a worried look, and she bit her lip, finger swirling on the rim of her filched mug. She glanced through the door to the living room, watching Taylor as he snored on the recliner. Poor little guy was _beat_. He'd been blaming himself all day for Pops having a "fit" and for Danny freezing their room.

"I dunno, Johnny. You said Walker was pretty upset. Penny, too, if you're not absolutely bullshitting me."

Johnny glared at her from the crook of his elbow. "Hey, I would _never _bullshit you when it comes to something _that_ fucking weird, 'kay? It was like watchin' those old married couples you see on sitcoms fight. 'cept when they were done, Danny was a little kid-sicle and Pops was deep into a Thousand-Yard-Stare. Pen just kinda went along with it, too."

Kitty leaned forward enough to press their foreheads together, the tip of her nose just brushing his. "You're pretty good at being observant for someone who's so oblivious ninety-percent of the time," she teased. "Think your dad's got a bit of a crush on Pen?"

"I think 'crush' is a bit of an understatement, kitten. _I _had a bit of a crush on Penny when she first formed. Not that I think she's prettier than you!" Johnny sputtered, getting a good look at the dangerous gleam in Kitty's eyes. "But I had a crush. This thing Pop's has got is different. He looks at Pen like. . . like. . ."

"Like what, Johnny?"

Frowning, he finally managed to put the look into words. "He looks at Pen kinda the way I look at you."

There was an "aww" building in Kitty's throat. He could _feel_ it. But she just grinned and pecked him on the forehead, fingers playing with the baby-hairs at the back of his neck.

"And how do you look at me, Johnny?" she cooed.

Johnny groaned. "Aww, c'mon, kitten – don't make me say it out loud! It's not _cool_."

"It also isn't cool to be a dick, Johnny. Now, say it!"

"Fine!" he grumped. "He looks at her like she's the whole fuckin' world. There, ya happy?!"

Kitty answered by kissing him full on the mouth. And it was just the _best _answer he'd gotten all day. Johnny was grinning by the time she pulled back, even though it probably made him look like a full-on dope. God, this had been a shitty day, but at least he could count on her to make it all better. Well, mostly better.

He still had to deal with Tay if Pops didn't make it home.

Thankfully, it seemed God didn't feel like fucking him right up the ass, because it wasn't two minutes later that the front door opened.

Pops and Penny both looked like hell, designer eye-bags and all. Danny was passed out on Pops, his white hair just barely peeking out from beneath the thick fur he was wrapped in. The door shut with a quiet _snick!_ behind them, and Johnny stood up from his chair, Kitty right behind.

"I was starting to think you weren't comin' home, Pops," he whispered.

The eye-bags were more like bruises, and Johnny really wished that he didn't have a habit of saying stupid things when Pops was tired. Because tired Pops was _bad_. Kitty elbowed him in the ribs and glared, stepping around him to give Penny a hug. She sagged into it, obviously exhausted.

"We were startin' to think we weren't comin' home, either," Pops drawled, voice raspy. "There was a lot a damage Frostbite had ta reverse. Yer sister leave?"

Johnny nodded. "Yeah – she took Skulker a few hours ago. Tin-can couldn't handle Tay."

Frowning, Pops glanced over where Taylor was curled in the recliner. He sighed. "Poor little fella. Was he bad?"

"Nah – he's just been anxious. Kiddo feels guilty 'cause he thinks Danny havin' an anxiety attack was his fault."

It seemed like Penny had another thing in common with Kitty; she was good at interrupting when someone least expected it. "That's fucking stupid. Danny has panic-attacks if we forget to turn off the timer on the dryer. It could've happened at any point."

Johnny blinked in shock. "Since when do you care about Tay blamin' himself for something? I thought you hated him."

She glared death at him and that was _bad_, Johnny, don't make eye contact with angry Penny. She took Danny from Pops, bouncing in place as the little guy grumped in his sleep. "I don't hate the little brat. I think he's obnoxious. But I don't hate him."

Pops snorted. "You callin' Tay a brat is like a sow callin' a boar dirty, Pen."

"Shut up," she growled half-heartedly. "Let's just all go to bed. I feel like I could die again."

Okay, so he totally agreed with that because it had been a long ass day. But. . . "That sounds awesome except Danny's room's still frozen over. Em couldn't get it to thaw for some reason."

Pops looked ready to collapse, scrubbing a hand down his face. He even had a five o'clock shadow at this point. "That's alright. Tay's out anyway, so let's just leave 'im. You an' Kitty can take the couch. Danny can sleep with either me or Pen. It don' matter."

Now, if he was a good son, or even just a smart son, he would've said that he and Kitty would take Tay back to their place and just come back in the morning. But Johnny was an absolute _dipshit_ so he didn't say anything quick enough to beat Penny to the punch.

"Just let Johnny and Kitty have my room. We're adults, Tex, I'm sure we can share the same bed. 'sides, it's big enough to fit a small army. You won't be crunched for space."

Kitty somehow managed to avoid ripping off his arm in shock, but that didn't mean her nails digging into his elbows felt good. To his credit, Pops looked just as surprised as he felt, blinking down at Penny for a good long minute before he answered.

"Well. . . I mean. . . if you're sure," he sputtered.

"I'm sure. Unless the big, bad warden's scared of a sharing his bed?" Penny sassed.

She was already making her way to the stairs, Danny stretching and yawning against her shoulder. Pops just stood there, mouth open, blinking as he tried to process what the actual fuck was going on. And for once in his afterlife, Johnny felt like he wasn't the only dumbass guy in the room. Kitty was punching his kidneys for some godforsaken reason. Probably excitement because _holy shit_. . .

Penny and Pops were sittin' in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G. . .

Thankfully, Kitty seemed to be a normal, functioning adult. Because Johnny didn't know _what _the fuck to do?

"Alright, Walker, Johnny and I will take the spare room. You go upstairs and sleep, 'kay?" she chirped. "It's been a rough day for everyone. And don't even bother setting an alarm for in the morning. We'll take care of Taylor when he wakes up."

She didn't bother waiting for a response, gently shoving Pops towards the staircase. Pops nodded, and he still looked like someone had beat him over the head with a brick. God, was _this _what it was like to be the smart one? Johnny could kinda see why Penny was such a smartass. This was awesome!

Once Pops disappeared up the stairs, Kitty pounced on him, shaking him viciously by the shoulders. "_Holy shit, Johnny!_"

Johnny laughed. "I know, right? Pops has it _bad_."

"You didn't fucking tell me it was like _that_?!" she whisper-shrieked. "Holy shit, they were like a shitty Hallmark couple pining away for each other and the only language they can speak is sarcasm! God, and the way they _parent_? Like, did you notice how they moved Danny?! No words, no bullshittery – they are _parents_, and they're _soft_ for each other and. . . holy shit, I ship it."

"What the hell does that mean?" Johnny asked.

Kitty's grin was borderline evil, and he felt himself fall in love all over again. "It means you're gonna have a new step-mom, Johnny Walker."

. . . now would've been a really good time for the gates of Hell to swallow him whole. But that wasn't how his afterlife worked. All Johnny knew was that he was fucking _doomed_. Again.

**A/N: MERRY CHRYSLER! *screams in Vine***

**I come bearing a chapter to round out the decade AND the year! This has been sitting on my laptop for a hot-second, and even though it's not quite as refined as I would've liked it to be, I couldn't wait. No betas. We post our rough-draft 8k chapters like _men_, dammit. This one's a bit lighter than most of my other chapters have been. That's because Johnny's a simple soul, bless him, and he does things his own fucking way.**

**Also, Johnny isn't like canon Johnny in that he isn't a horrific man-slut. He looks. He has crushes. But he does not touch and is soft for his girl, 'kay? They were my favorite couple growing up, shut up and let me have this. **

**Anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed the chapter, and I'll see you in the next one!**


	17. Chapter 17

Penelope woke up _entirely _too early.

Again.

It was starting to become a frightening trend that she _did not like_. Mostly because sleep was the one consistently good thing in her afterlife. Well – sleep and Danny. Maybe Walker when he wasn't being a dick. Either way, she was awake even though she still felt like someone had taken her out back and beat her with a stick, and that just wasn't okay.

Why was she awake?

Penelope grumbled and pulled Danny closer to her chest, smiling a bit as he smacked his lips in his sleep. Her little man burrowed right in, fingers curled in the fabric of her top, and sighed. And he was actually _warm_ for a change, no freezing nose stabbing her in the throat or ice-cube toes pressed against her belly. It was almost enough to make her go right back to sleep. . .

"C'mon, bud, what's wrong? I can' fix it if ya don' tell me."

. . . fuck.

Cracking open one eye, Penelope looked around the dark room. Walker's side of the bed was empty, the sheets tucked tight around Danny so he wouldn't get cold. How the actual _hell_ did that huge-ass cowboy manage to move so quietly? Confused and still pissed-off that she was awake, Penelope craned her neck around and glanced at the clock. Five a.m. It was _five_ in the _fucking morning_ and they'd gone to bed at _midnight_.

And now she was _awake again_.

A tiny sniffle drifted in from the hall. "It's stupid. I don' wanna talk about it."

Walker sighed, and she could picture the long-suffering expression on his face. "Tay, if it's gotcha this upset, it ain't stupid. Now, ya wanna tell me what's wrong? Or am I gonna have ta put ya back in bed?"

Oh – well, how was she supposed to fall asleep after listening to _that_? Penelope fought with herself for another minute or two, listening to Walker and Taylor – God, it was weird thinking of him by his actual name – talk quietly in the hall. The little boy was obviously trying not to cry. His voice was thick and stopped through his nose, and his breath hitched every couple of seconds. Walker, it seemed, talked to all of his kids the same way he talked to Danny.

Like they were tiny adults.

Well, okay, maybe he talked to Johnny and Ember differently because they were stupid teenaged shits. But he talked to Danny and Taylor the same way, at least, and it was making her core do a weird flutter thing that was fucking _nauseating_ to think about. She was almostready to let Walker handle his own brat and go back to sleep.

Then Taylor whispered, "Do you think Danny's gonna hate me now?"

. . . fuck it.

She was awake already and the brat was being fucking _depressing_, so she needed to go stop that shit _real_ quick.

Penelope growled at herself under her breath. Not loud enough to bother Danny, of course. He was exhausted and needed the sleep. But it was enough to make her wounded pride feel a little better. Moving carefully, she maneuvered her way out of Danny's grip and tried not to gasp when the cold air smacked her in the face. Wearing tank tops to bed was comfortable and all but Jesus Christ, trying to stay warm after getting up was impossible.

Walker was a big dumb cowboy, but he'd had enough sense to put a large rug underneath the bed, so at least her feet didn't freeze along with the rest of her. Penelope grabbed one of his robes from a foot-post and threw it on. There was the smallest sliver of light peeking out from underneath the door. As she got closer, the voices got a bit louder.

"Bud, Danny ain't gonna hate ya," Walker reassured. "He could'a had that attack anytime. Y'just got unlucky, that's all."

Another round of sniffles. "I just. . . I wanted to be the _big _brother for once, and I screwed it all up. Just like I always do."

He sounded resigned and more than a little heartbroken, and she could taste his self-hatred like a lollipop on her tongue. Penelope had never been Youngblood's biggest fan. He was an obnoxious, loud, destructive little shit on a good day. He was _dangerous_ on a bad, mostly because he was so fucking reckless. But sometimes she forgot that, in all reality, Taylor was still a ten-year-old boy. Ten-year-old boys were wild, loud, reckless little shits.

Bleeding hearts of the universe unite, but she felt her core ache a bit listening to him.

Penelope opened the door and squinted against the sudden light. And there stood Walker and Taylor, blinking stupidly up at her like a pair of confused puppies. For some reason, Walker was fully-dressed in his suit. Hair slicked and hidden under that stupid hat of his. Shoes polished. Gloves on.

Taylor, though, was wrapped in an obviously well-loved Crash Nebula blanket, the tips of his mismatched toes peeping out from the hem. His hair was messy. His eyes were red. And he looked so pitiful it made her chest ache.

Goddammit, she missed not having emotions. This was a pain in the ass.

"In what circle of Hell did you two decide to have an early-morning pow-wow?" she griped, voice thick and raspy. "Because, in case it's slipped your attention, I'm _not _a morning person."

Taylor sniffled again, eyes watering, and retreated into the hem of his blanket. Walker chose to glare at her instead.

"We didn't mean ta wake ya up, _your_ _highness_," he growled. "Go back to sleep. We'll take our pow-wow t' the kitchen."

Penelope tried not to bristle at his tone. But there were just some things that irked her and someone coping attitude at the ass-crack of dawn when she was _already_ exhausted was one of them. She ground her teeth together, folded her arms across her chest.

"Be a sarcastic ass all you want, Tex, but I'm awake because you're an idiot and this conversation's giving me anxiety," she snapped right back. "Now, would you like to let me help or do you want to go back to floundering on your own? I'll gladly do whatever _his highness_ chooses."

They were both exhausted and crabby and probably neither one in the best mood to deal with this, but _dammit_, he'd gone and pissed her off. So she'd fight dirty if she had to. Judging by the way a vein popped in Walker's temple, she managed to push his buttons, so that was a small battle won. Then she glanced down at Taylor and regretted being a total bitch. He looked heartbroken and guilty, trying so hard not to cry it bordered on heroic. Had he always been so small? He barely came up to her hip.

"H-how much did you hear?" the kid whispered, lower lip wobbling.

Huh – so _this _was what it was like to be empathetic again. Well, color her shocked, but it blew. Emotions were terrible. She wanted to return them for a full refund.

Sighing, Penelope uncrossed her arms and knelt in front of Taylor. He refused to make eye-contact, instead staring at the way his toes curled and un-curled in the thick carpet of the hallway runner.

"Taylor, honey, what makes you think you've screwed everything up?" Sometimes, asking a question was easier than giving a response.

His face crumpled, and he scrubbed one hand viciously over his eyes. "I was supposed to make Danny feel better 'cause that's what Johnny tries to do for me when I'm scared, but I just made him panic 'cause I'm a big dumb baby an' I _always _mess stuff up."

Oh, God, why? _Why?_ That was fucking sweet enough to give her cavities, _shit_. . .

Penelope glanced up at Walker. He was frowning, forehead creased in concern. It wasn't a strange expression to see him wear anymore. When did that happen? Whatever – she needed to deal with this. She put a hand on top of Youngblood's head and started playing with his hair. It was finer than she thought it would've been, soft and silky as it slipped between her fingers, and he relaxed a bit at the gesture.

"Did you know that your dad and I have made Danny panic before?" That seemed as good a place to start as any, letting him know that mistakes were universal.

Taylor looked up at her, eyes red-rimmed and a little wet. "R-really?"

A tiny self-deprecating smile curved Penelope's lips. "Really. Danny has had a lot of really bad things happen to him, and we don't always know what's going to scare him. What happened wasn't your fault, sweetie. You just didn't know."

His lower lip wobbled dangerously as Walker knelt down next to her, and Taylor looked between them with a sort of desperation that made her chest ache. "That's right, bud," he rumbled softly. "Ya couldn't've known what was gonna scare 'im. Heck, _I _dunno what's gonna scare 'im half the time! One time I set him off jus' by washin' m'hands with the wrong soap."

It was true enough; Taylor didn't need to know that it was actually antiseptic. Penelope caught a stray tear as it fell from the corner of his eye and tapped the little boy's button nose.

"See? Even your Papa makes mistakes, brat. They happen. There's no point in making yourself miserable over them." She shrugged. "Trust me – I'm an expert in what makes people miserable."

Taylor managed a wet giggle. He sniffled again, forehead still creased in genuine concern. "You really think Danny isn't gonna hate me?" he whispered. "I scared him so bad he froze the whole _room_."

This time, it was Walker who answered. "Bud, I don' think Danny's gotta hatin' bone in his body. Jus' take it slow for a lil' bit, 'kay? Give 'im some time. You'll be a good big brother."

His little shoulders sagged under the Crash Nebula blanket. "You really think so, Papa?"

Walker grinned and ruffled his hair, callouses brushing over her own fingers long enough to send a shiver up Penelope's arm. "Yeah, bud, I do. Now, why don'tcha try goin' back ta sleep? 's still early, an' nobody else is gonna be up for a while yet."

She caught sight of the shadows under Taylor's eyes, and a pang of _something_ smacked her in the gut. When did the little shit get so damn cute? It wasn't fair. None of this was fair. As the boy shifted from foot to foot, Penelope cursed herself for about the third time in as many minutes and shoved him towards the bedroom door.

"Go get in bed, kid," she ordered, even though her tone was _way_ too gentle. "There's plenty of room. I'll be in in a minute."

He looked from her to Walker and back again, all wide eyes and disbelief. She caught the warden shaking his head out of the corner of her eye. "Don' look at me! I'm headed t'the prison fer a bit. She's the boss while 'm gone." He waited for Taylor to move and prompted him again when he didn't. "Well, g'on then. She ain't gonna bite ya."

Taylor nodded, worrying his lower lip between two bucked teeth, and suddenly darted forward to hug Walker around the neck. "Be careful, okay, Papa? Love you."

"Love ya, too, brat. Now go back t'bed. Ya look like somethin' the cat puked up an' shook."

Another giggle, then Taylor suddenly hugged _her_, and Penelope felt like her brain short-circuited a little bit. It was different from how Danny liked to hug. Because Danny always squeezed like you were about to disappear on him, arms and legs wrapped so tight it bordered on painful. Taylor hugged firmly, but not so tight it ached, and the way his left arm buzzed with energy was strange. But he also tucked his cheek close to her neck and relaxed into her in a way Danny never did unless he was asleep.

It was _weird_ and it was _wonderful_ and holy _fucking_ shit, she hadn't been ready for this.

"Thanks, Pen," he whispered.

Penelope swallowed the lump in her throat and squeezed him back. "You're welcome, brat."

Taylor let go and stumbled back towards the master bedroom, dragging the Crash Nebula blanket behind him as he went. The door closed. And Penelope was alone with Walker. Again. Like always.

She turned and caught sight of the huge shit-eating grin on his face. "Not a fucking word, Tex, and I mean it."

Walker's grin somehow got wider, and he stood up to lean against the bannister. "An annoyin' brat, huh? You were awful sweet t'that annoyin' brat. Makes me think you ain't quite as bad as ya let people believe."

Penelope snarled and rounded on him. "You bite your fucking tongue! I will_ actually_ fucking murder you, and don't think for a second I won't!"

"Nah, ya ain't gonna do that, sugar," he taunted. "Who'd ya have ta fight with if ya did? 'sides, 'm jus' pointin' out that yer sure bein' nice, especially since it's s'early. Maybe there's a soft-spot in that cold little core a yers."

This was not happening. Why was this happening? It was too early for this to be happening and Penelope was Not Okay. She shushed him quickly, smacking her hand against his pec. Which was stupid because it felt like hitting a wall but her impulse control was nil at best so here the fuck they were. Him in a goddamn three-piece and her in an old robe.

"Shut up! Shut the hell _up_!" she hissed. "Do you know what would happen to me if people figured out I have a soft spot for little kids?! What the fuck _Bertrand _would do to me?! Keep that shit on lock-down, Yosemite Sam, or I swear I will fucking _bury_ you."

Walker's face had sobered during her rant, and Penelope noted that he hadn't once told her to stop swearing, which was a sign that he'd either removed the stick from his ass or he was pissed off at someone other than her. Breathing hard, cheeks flushed, she pulled the thick robe tighter across her waist and held it. Kind of like a hug without requiring contact with someone else. Not that she would _want_ contact with someone else. . .

"I ain't gonna tell anyone, Pen," Walker rumbled. "I jus' thought it was awful sweet of ya ta help Tay like that. There ain't a whole lot of people'd do that for 'im 'cause everyone thinks he's jus' wild an' ornery. Which he is, I ain't gonna lie 'bout that. But he's got pretty bad anxiety, too. Makes 'imself sick worryin' over stuff he can't control or somethin' he messed up on." The warden shrugged and rubbed the back of his neck thoughtfully. "I do the best I can, but it was kinda nice ta have someone else helpin' me. Didn' mean ta get'cha all wound up like that. Sorry."

. . . fuck.

_Fuck_.

What the _actual_ fuck?!

This was _not _allowed. Walker wasn't allowed to be that sweet. Or that considerate. Or that fucking _soft_. That stupid, bashful look on his face was trying to kill her again, and it was Not Okay that he'd apologized for her going off like that because she'd been having a bitch-baby tantrum. Penelope didn't know if she wanted to hit him or scream at him or give him a hug.

Or do all three.

"Stop that," she managed to choke out. "Stop apologizing. It's weird. I don't like it."

Walker blinked at her owlishly for a second, then chuckled. And it was _cute_, dammit, what the _shit_?

"I'd 've thought you'd want an apology after bein' forced ta spend all this time with me, sugar," and the smile in his voice was _stupid_. "What's wrong? Scared if 'm nice t'ya you'll start likin' me?"

_Yes. . ._

"Fucking no!" Penelope snapped back. "I was worried you'd had a stroke. They can cause personality changes, you know. Now, are you going to tell me what the fuck you're doing dressed at five in morning? Or am I going to be forced to guess?"

Walker rolled his eyes and stood up straight again. "First off, quit swearin' 'fore I wash yer mouth out." Oh, there the swear-Nazi was. "Second, I got a call from Bullet. He's got somethin' I need ta take a quick look at. Then I thought I'd go talk ta Technus 'bout makin' Danny a regulator. I should be back by one or so."

Seriously? Did he ever fucking slow down? "And you couldn't wait until a reasonable time to do it? Like noon? Noon's a good time to wake up after all the bullshit from yesterday."

Shaking his head, Walker crossed the two steps between them until she had to crane her head up to look him in the eye. "Nope – Bullet said it was important, an' I don' wanna wait for another episode 'fore we get goin' on getting' Danny t'regulate his core. Best get it outta the way so I can collapse later."

Penelope snorted despite herself. "Collapse sounds about right. I'm ready to fall over."

A big hand shoved gently on her shoulder towards the bedroom door. "Get on back t'bed. Kitty'll take care a breakfast an' Tay if ya want help."

She quirked an eyebrow at him. "Not Johnny?"

"Poor kid tries but, good Lord, sometimes he's dumber than a sack a hammers," Walker groaned. "Best leave things t' Kitty. She's got a good head on 'er shoulders."

He wasn't _wrong_. Kitty might've been a bit jealous and obsessed with her dumbass grease-monkey sometimes, but she was level-headed and took care of things when it got down to the wire. That was why they got along so well. Penelope grinned and opened the bedroom door.

"Well, if you're sure," she mock-groaned, "then I'm going back to sleep for the next thirty years. Wake me up when our kids aren't so depressing."

A surprised bark of laughter followed her even as she closed the door, and Penelope felt a bit more centered than before. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim bedroom again, but she navigated pretty well all things considered, tossing the filched robe into some random corner. Just to piss Walker off later, she told herself. Certainly not because she was too lazy to hang it back up.

That was just nonsense.

She cheated a bit and floated up to the bed instead of trying to walk around. Danny was still curled in the same spot she'd left him, one thumb tucked in his mouth and blankets tucked tight around his body. Taylor, though, had tucked his body as close to the edge of the mattress as he could without falling off. The old Crash Nebula blanket hid everything but his hair and mis-matched toes.

Another pang of something shot through Penelope's chest, and she rounded the bed to his side and knelt down. "I know you're still awake, brat. You might as well come out from under there."

There was a pause. Then a pair of bright green eyes peeked out at her from under the worn fabric.

"How'd ya know?" Taylor grumbled.

Penelope smirked at him. "You're not a very good actor, kid. Too stiff – you looked like you were paralyzed instead of sleeping."

A childish frown creased his forehead, and the boy pouted. "Nuh-uh. I'm a _great_ actor. That's how I get Papa to quit giving me chores." His eyes got wide again. "You're not allowed to tell him that!"

She couldn't help but laugh at him. "Don't worry! If Walker can't see past your _horrible_ acting skills, that's his own fault. I'm not a snitch." Taylor relaxed a little bit at the reassurance, and Penelope felt comfortable enough to continue. "But I _am_ nosy, so do you want to tell me why you're trying to fall off the bed instead of sleeping in it?"

His expression crumpled with anxiety. So much so that Penelope cursed whatever asshole deity decided to return her emotions.

"I just. . . I didn't want to wake Danny up," Taylor mumbled, eyes looking everywhere but her face. "'cause I didn't want him to get scared again. 'sides, my arm and leg are cold. And he just got thawed out, so I figured that getting cold again would probably be bad for him, right?"

Okay, since when had the obnoxious, buck-toothed brat that doused her in gravy last year gotten so fucking _sweet_? Penelope sighed and tugged the blanket back down from where it had crept up his chin. Her thumb wiped away some dirt that had smeared over his chin. Taylor was looking at her like he desperately wanted reassurance but didn't quite want to ask for it.

"That's very sweet of you, honey," Penelope soothed. "But Danny's pretty much unconscious right now. I doubt you'd wake him up."

"Oh. . . I guess you're right."

He sounded so damn unsure of himself it bordered on stupid. Penelope wanted to smack him and ask where the demon-spawn she'd known for so long had disappeared to because this was ridiculous. Instead, she floated up and plopped her happy ass in the middle of the bed. Danny immediately rolled into her side, a heavy warmth tucked under one arm and breathing on her ribcage. Taylor just stared like she'd done something unbelievable.

"Well, get over here," she ordered in a whisper. "I'm not going to bite. Well, bite hard, anyway. But if you kick me in your sleep, I swear to Christ, you'll regret it."

Slowly, cautiously, Taylor uncurled and scooted a bit closer. Just a bit, though, not enough to convince her one good roll wouldn't send him tumbling. Exasperated, Penelope reached over and took a handful of his pajama pants, dragging him over until there was a small but respectable amount of space between them.

"There – now I won't get my ass chewed for letting you fall out of bed." She rolled over to curl back around Danny again. "Get some more sleep, kid. It's been a rough couple of days."

Penelope relaxed into the mattress and shut her eyes, listening for anything that might signal Taylor was about to flee. Or cry again. Neither one was a good option. Instead, her brain was a traitor, and she could feel herself drifting off. It was warm. The bed was fucking _comfortable_. And Danny was going to be fine. This might've been the last chance she could ever get to have an almost full night of sleep.

Then she felt another tiny body start to huddle tight against her back, cold nose pressed between her shoulder blades and an arm buzzing with electricity touching her ribs. She smiled as Taylor whispered, "Thanks, Penny. For real."

Groggily, she reached back and cupped the back of his head. "You're welcome, Taylor."

Danny heaved a sigh against her throat as Taylor sagged into her back and, for once, Penelope fell asleep without issue.

~*O*~

Bertrand watches.

It is a known fact of the Ghost Zone that shadows are more than they appear. They can be extensions of the consciousness. They can be entities in of themselves. They can be nothing and they can be everything and Bertrand, whose true name has been long-forgotten by most everyone around him, knows how to use this to his advantage.

So he slips through the shadows, uses them as gateways between realms that other ghosts dare not tread. He watches all the pretty broken things, with their shattered-glass eyes and their fire hearts, and waits for his moments to feed. It is a pattern. Observe, act, feed, disengage. An endless cycle that repeats ad infinitum until nothing but chaos and bloody smears lie in his wake. Until the pretty broken things grow wary of him. Until they know how to spot him, smell him through the many shapes this body possess.

Until they learn to fear him.

And Bertrand finds himself breaking the cycle in that he must bring an _Other_ in to aid him. Someone who is beautiful and broken just like the rest. Someone they will flock to. Someone they will keep running towards again and again and _again_ simply because broken, unwanted things must stick together.

That is how he finds his _zvezda_.

The Russians have a beautiful language. It is not as lyrical as his mother-tongue, nor as rapid-fire as the English that so dominates the modern world. But it is rough and strong and _powerful_ in a way that many languages, he finds, so lack. _Zvezda_ is his favorite pet-name for his girl. It means star. Because that's what his Penelope is.

She's a star. Beautiful, bright, burning, and already dead by the time she is observed. He finds her on a late night, deep in the midst of the Zone. And nothing is the same because this creature is _perfect_. So broken and so unsure and so angry with the world around her. So utterly enthralled with her own beauty and crippled by it in equal measure. She's a fascinating enigma, his Penelope, and she's been ever-such a sport about being broken and reshaped. About letting him make her stronger.

Until _he _interfered.

And Bertrand has found his world tilted on its axis because he can't _feed_, you see, without his little one. The little broken things whisper to each other. They give him a wide-berth. He cannot get close enough to dig and tear until they weep with the misery his body needs to exist. Chaos is everything, yes, but misery is the afterlife. He _needs_ her, and she's _his_, and who was this Walker to take her from him?! Who was this brat to take her affection?!

Bertrand snarls and feels his body stretch with the sound. It grows and twists until there are hard edges and scales, teeth like daggers and ice coating his tongue. He claws through the shadows and tears open a rift between realms. Little monsters part like waves before a ship, crash against him like sea-foam on a wooden hull. The world is nothing and he wants to break it to pieces but first he needs his little star back.

She's not _strong _yet.

What sort of mentor would he be if he just _left _her the way she is?

Broken and shining and desperately weak. She's beautiful this way, yes, but they can go _further_. Until she is a queen sitting on a throne of bones and she looks at him like he is her king and they rule together, step on the backs of all those pretty broken things like so many stones. He will twist her and break her and then she will be _perfect_, and he will look upon her smile with its blood-stained teeth and he will know true greatness and. . .

"_Gotcha!_"

There is agony lancing up his spine and Bertrand roars as the electrical current arcs along his limbs. They stiffen, rigor mortis for the dead. The scales retract into ectoplasm. Fangs like swords are now like needles. He is weakening. He is shrinking. He is. . .

The chaos of the shadows washes over and through him and there are whispers echoing in his head and screams tear from his throat until the weaklings that have surrounded him are covering their ears in pain, and this is _power_, this sort of agonized weakness, and Bertrand is not his name here.

Here is Calder, and with him is the power of a dead star. The power that is cold and empty and whispers terrible things to those around it. It is the kind of power that feeds off fear, and though he has forgotten his family and his people and his home, Calder has never forgotten what it is like to look upon a man and press cold steel to his breast and watch the _fear_ stoke in his eyes. In these moments when he is broken, in pain, the walls around his mind begin to crack. They frost over. They crumble.

And the dragon of a dead-star escapes.

"Shit, shit, _shit_, what the _fuck _is this asshole?!"

"Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh fucking _shit_! Benson, let go! Get out of there! Get the ever-loving fuck out of there!"

"Cane, we need back-up! Suspect resisting violently, it's too much for us to take! We need back-up, I repeat, we _need_ back-up – "

One hand lashes out, claws and gathers the screaming whelp unto himself and _pulls_ until it screams no more. There are more. Others coming and bashing at him with their electrical toys and ectoplasmic blasts. Bertrand would retreat into the shadows. Bertrand would slink away and find a hole to stow away in until the heat had died and attention rested upon someone other than himself.

But Calder is not Bertrand. They are the same and not.

And instead, Calder burns. He rages. He destroys.

Men fall and men scream and Calder feels the energy leaving his body. He is shrinking again. Becoming so much less than he once was. And the power that gives his limbs the ability to tear away the whelps grows faint, just the barest flicker of a candle-flame. He is so _close_. He can taste it. The fear that floods their bodies and the panic that lies behind their eyes and on the horizon he sees a lair, one where his _svezda_ lies curled in a bed with tiny _intruders_ that do not belong, the ones that bring smiles to her lips and a light in her eyes that he simply _can't_ and it makes the rage boil in his veins.

Calder stops.

Calder watches.

There are hands on his shoulders and they are man-sized once more. And there is electricity coursing through his muscles and they are seized. Scraping at nerves made raw. He sees. He sees it all. His little star and the venom in his tongue and the blazing rage in _his_ eyes. There is a warden here, you see, in this Zone built on dead souls. He makes laws that chaos does not understand and enforces them with men who do not see the beauty in the cruelty, and he wishes to crush them.

But he has let his rage burn too cold and the dragon has retreated below the depths. There is nothing here. It is void. It is empty. And there, deep in the darkness, where no one and nothing can live. . .

There is a star.

And she is Penelope.

And she is _his_.

Calder falls back into the cold, dead furnace of his heart and hides behind the walls. And from them Bertrand emerges, laughing into the faces of battered men that bleed green and hold pieces of fallen comrades to their cores. They look upon him with the same eyes as those men who had stared up from the end of his sword so very long ago. He does not remember his family. He does not remember his friends, his comrades, his home.

He remembers the eyes of the men he has killed.

He remembers his little star and the way her lip split under the back of his hand.

Bertrand sits back on his heels and lets the agony wash over him. Lets the hands wrangle him into submission and place cuffs around his wrists that sap what little strength remains in his body. He allows them to bash his face against a nearby chunk of stone and cackles as ectoplasm floods his mouth, sweet and cloying like rot. There are monsters afoot, dragons slumbering, and patience is a virtue.

He can wait.

Sometimes, it is easier to let the broken things, those with their shattered-glass hearts and stiff upper-lips, believe they've won.

There is one who calls himself Bullet, and he grasps a handful of the hair Bertrand has formed and pulls until the muscles in his neck are shrieking. Bertrand does not fight. He laughs and let's his eyes bleed red while his teeth shine green.

"You're way more fuckin' trouble than you're worth, _asshole_," the lieutenant spits. "I hope to fuck Walker lets me beat the shit outta you when he's done."

There is a grin on his lips, Bertrand is sure, mocking, and the star on his horizon shifts to hold an intruder closer. "I'm beginning to think you're not very fond of me, lieutenant. Such a shame – you've such a pretty little wife at home. And your children! So precious. Tell me, would it be a bother if I would stop by for a drink one evening? I'm terribly fond of the little ones, you know."

It is a marvelous game, pulling on the strings and seeing which ones garner reactions. Which ones make the core-dragons dance and which loops allow their flames to burn bright with hate. The one called Bullet goes pale, one eye wide, and a snarl forms just before a fist careens into his nose. His vision goes white and Bertrand pictures his little one, wide-eyed and bruised and beautiful.

"_Fuck you_!" And the lieutenant is definitely one of _his_ lackeys, not at all eloquent. "Don't you _ever_ talk about my family!"

Ectoplasm runs hot over his chin, coats his busted lips, and Bertrand does not feel it. It is cold and it is hot and it is void and it is chaos and everything is exactly as it should be. There are pieces to be maneuvered here. A war to be won.

He will have his star yet.

"Lieutenant! Sir, Walker said we need him in one piece! Walker wants him _conscious_!" There is a scuffle, a young patrolman yanking on the Bullet-boy's shoulder. "He's doing this on purpose. You've gotta get ahold of yourself!"

There is fury on the lieutenant's face. Bertrand can taste it, hot and spicy like mulled wine, and the hunger roils in his belly. He laughs. Watches the reactions. The dragon coils in its cave but does not breathe ice onto the walls. He must be patient.

Everything is as it should be.

"Get him the _fuck _out of my sight! He killed three good men today – I don't wanna look at his mug another second."

And there is a bag tossed over his head and he is being hoisted and beaten and shoved into a vehicle of some sort. It is dark and the fabric reeks of stale vomit, but there are worse things in this world, to be sure, and Bertrand is not concerned. He does not need to be.

He closes his eyes and watches through the shadows as his girl sleeps. The bruises have faded. The marks have disappeared. Her eyes are closed and she cannot see him, rather she clings to the dreams of what _might _have been and a boy who sees only with the ectoplasm given to him. A boy who has nothing and a man who does not see chaos and she surrounds herself with those who do not _understand_ her.

Not like Bertrand does, anyway.

He hums, sways in the back of the moving vehicle, breathes deep of the vomit-smell, and picks the ectoplasm crusted beneath his nails.

All is according to plan.

On his horizon, a dead star is dim, but soon it will burn once more.

All he needs is time.

~*O*~

This was an unexpected development.

Vlad had grown accustomed to being able to discern the next step in almost any situation. Life, he found, was much like a game of chess. In order to win, one had to be thinking up to twelve steps in advance. Anticipating the other players moves was essential. Calculating alternative strategies should the initial plan fail could not be overlooked.

But this had been. . . extraordinarily difficult to process.

Jasmine, he found, was an exceptionally bright little girl. She was precocious and diligent and analytical like his Maddie. That had not been unexpected. What had been unexpected was how undeniably _fragile_ she was. Their initial conversation in the car had been intelligent and bright, different than what he'd been expecting, but refreshing, all things considered. Attempting to show her the mansion – one of his smaller homes, with only ten thousand square feet of living space, but adequate to be sure – had been an altogether different experience.

Despite having lifted her into the car before leaving, Vlad still hadn't been ready for how _tiny_ his goddaughter was. She felt like a breathing doll, all ribs and porcelain arms that weighed nothing in the crook of his arm. A large portion of him was scared of the possibility that he might break her. Twisting too quickly or squeezing too hard or even breathing in her general direction. And, physically, her weight was a disturbing fact to note in of itself.

It had nothing on what came afterwards.

Jasmine had gone silent during their tour of his home, all huge violet eyes and twisting fingers as she traced the walls and their collection of football memorabilia, staring intensely at the heavy door that lead down towards his laboratory. It felt as though she weren't even listening, too overwhelmed to process his explanations and directions. But Vlad felt as though he couldn't _stop_, couldn't bear listening to silence overtake the empty space between them. So he kept talking, loafers muffled by thick Persian rugs, voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings overhead.

And then they arrived at her room.

He'd brought in one of his secretaries to help him, a charming mother of three little girls. She'd been more than happy to aid in the selection of furniture and color for the walls, graciously offering up suggestions for books to go on the shelves and laughing at the number of toys he procured for the child. Part of Vlad had taken offense. Of _course_ Jasmine would have the best toys his money could buy; she was his Maddie's child, after all.

Another, smaller part, was flattered that anyone would ever laugh and call his actions "sweet", selfish as they were.

He opened the door and watched her reaction. Watched as those big violet eyes got even wider. Waited with baited breath as she drank in every inch of the new space and nearly panicked when it looked like she might cry. He _did_ panic when Jasmine turned in his arms and hugged him tight about the neck, little face buried where he couldn't see it. Every bit of her shook, from overwhelmed nerves or gratitude or shock, he couldn't decipher.

"Thank you," she had whispered, over and over again. "Thank you, Uncle Vlad."

And it had made his chest _ache_, hearing just how desperately grateful she was. This was _nothing_ compared to the worlds he could provide this child. The opportunities and the wealth and the power that he could bestow upon her head. It was paltry in comparison to what new adventures he could provide if she only knew about his powers, the unique characters she could be connected with on the other side of the veil.

But here she was, so grateful that she physically trembled over something so simple as a bedroom.

Jasmine was _six_. It made no sense for such a young child to be so overwhelmed by bedroom furniture and books, especially one who had been raised in a well-financed household. What concerned him most, however, was the fact that, despite being clearly distraught, Jasmine did not shed a single tear. Not _one_. He was a thirty-year-old man and could vividly recall several episodes of sobbing during his stay in the hospital.

It made no sense.

So here he sat, stewing over the thoughts and machinations of a child long after she had gone to bed. He sipped on a glass of rose – crisp and bright to juxtapose his thoughts – and stared into the fire in his study. It wasn't far from Jasmine's bedroom, and every now and again he caught himself straining to listen to the sound of little feet. Not even a guardian for twenty-four hours and he was already overprotective.

It figured that _this _would be the one portion of his plan that didn't go as expected.

The case-files copied from Mr. Turner's ever-so-locked filing cabinet told a grim story, strewn haphazardly across his desk. Vlad hadn't wanted to believe them. Could not imagine a world where his Madeleine would ever consider starving her daughter, the one she loved so dearly. Could not comprehend a scenario where Maddie would even _think _about slapping a child in the face or leaving bruises along her ribcage. Would not _dare _dream of a universe in which his Madeleine had turned into an alcoholic, abusive carbon-copy of her own mother.

And yet. . .

The evidence was damning and it set his perceptions of the universe into a tail-spin. Was _this _his Maddie? The woman who had been apprehended by police screaming that ghosts had abducted her son? The woman whom his private detective said fought with Jack constantly and punched holes in walls when she was not sequestered away in her lab? The woman whom he loved with every inch of his half-dead heart and _yearned_ to make his, the one who nearly killed her eldest and lost her youngest?

It made no sense. The pieces didn't fit. Yes, his Madeleine had a wicked temper and a sharp tongue, but she was also quick to apologize. And, yes, sometimes Madeleine could allow her thirst for answers to cloud her objectivity in experimental protocol but she was_ brilliant_ and kind and had such a zest for knowledge that it made his own endeavors appear dull by comparison. She was _stunning _and _spectacular_ and. . .

"Madeleine Fenton stated upon arrest, 'It should have been _her _(Jasmine Fenton), not Danny. Danny was a good boy. My baby didn't deserve to be taken by ghosts. Why couldn't it have been _her_?' with Officers Sanchez and Williams as witness."

It was a quote, directly from page three of Mr. Turner's reports on Jasmine. The sentences mocked him, glaring up at him with cruel eyes and grins made of lies. It couldn't be true. And yet logically, it wasn't a lie.

Vlad didn't know what to do.

Frustrated, growling, he tossed back the last of his wine and placed the glass in a nearby sink for Smith to remove in the morning. He paced a bit, muttering different theories as to _why_ there was such a sudden, drastic change in his Maddie. And then he caught just the faintest sound of little feet on carpet, breaths hitching in a small chest. His feet moved though he couldn't recall giving them the order.

When he opened the study door, there stood Jasmine, staring up at him with_ fear_ in those big eyes and something in Vlad's chest cracked down the middle. He knelt closer to her level and tried not to snarl when she flinched away. Tried to breathe through his nose and maintain his concerned expression.

"Jazz? What are you doing awake?" he questioned. "It's very late. Aren't you tired?"

Her lower lip trembled, and the worn bear that she had clutched to her chest was straining to maintain it's stitches. "I. . .I'm sorry. I had a bad dream."

Vlad blinked.

She. . . she'd had a bad dream? And had come to _him_?

Frankly, he was used to being someone's bad dream, either from a corporate standpoint or ghostly one. He was used to being regarded with a mixture of fear and awe. Never being seen as a source of comfort, a shoulder to cry on.

This was fresh territory and, frankly, it was fucking terrifying.

"Would you like to talk about it?" Vlad offered.

Jasmine shook her head frantically. "No! I'm not allowed ta talk about it. Mommy said so."

A small, traitorous part of Vlad's mind whispered that those rules shouldn't apply here, but the majority crushed it beneath his mental heel. Instead, he nodded in assent and offered an alternative. "Alright, then would you like to sit in here with me? We can read until you fall asleep again."

That was what his mother had always done when he was small. She couldn't read in English, and so when he'd had a nightmare, Vlad would sit on her lap before the fire and read to her, translating the English phrases into Russian until his eyes wouldn't stay open a second longer. Jasmine had said she enjoyed reading. Perhaps it would work for her as well?

Sniffling a bit, Jasmine nodded, and her strangle-hold on the bear relaxed. She looked so utterly frail in her white nightgown, hair falling in auburn waves down her back and head too big for the rest of her. There were still shadows in her eyes. But, as he stood, she took his hand and allowed him to lead her to a set of bookshelves along the far wall. There was a particular storybook he wished to read from, a collection of fairy tales from the Ancients of the Ghost Zone that he found fascinating. The leather tomb was thick and heavy in his fingers, and Jasmine watched him pull it from the shelf in wary curiosity.

"Come along, then," he coaxed. "This is a special storybook. I think you'll like it."

Jasmine climbed into his lap a second or two after he sat down, nestled in the crook of his right arm. Her hair smelled like the children's No-Tears shampoo that he'd purchased the day before. "What kind of stories are these?"

Vlad grinned to himself and opened the book. Ghost text – mostly Esperanto, intermixed with a passage or two of Latin or even French – swirled across the parchment in a dance all its own. Jasmine gasped as images spiraled up from the first page, face glowing a soft green as two figures began dancing together before them.

"These are stories written by a very strange race of people, _kiska_ – that means 'kitten' in Russian, by the way," he explained. "I had to look for a long time to find this book."

Jasmine never took her eyes from the dancing couple, suspended in time until he spoke to engage them. "What is it?"

His grin grew softer, more contemplative, and Vlad came to a full realization as to what exactly he'd gotten himself into. "It's _magic_, _malyshka_. Watch them closely."

Vlad cleared his throat and began the story, and for once his deep baritone was not threatening. "Once upon a time, before the world became old and the Zone of my people was young, there lived and died a man. . ."

Outside, the wind whistled and the skies were dark and the world lived in fear of Vlad Masters, the billionaire, the corporate mogul with his too-sharp eyes and wolfish grin. Outside, there was a Ghost Zone filled with chaos and a woman, one he loved so dearly it cut him to the marrow, who tore herself apart day by day.

But inside, there was simply Vlad Masters and Jasmine Fenton. A lonely man with a bruised heart and a damaged girl with a fragile soul. Inside, there lived a man who did not know how to be a father that read stories to a child who feared speaking her truths.

Inside, there was a story, and a book, and a _beginning_.

(The clock strikes midnight.)

(And the Clock-keeper smiles.)

**It's so nice to not have to worry about school for another - looks at watch - twelve whole seconds! I can get so much writing accomplished!**

**Now, this is the point in the story that I think has changed the most from my original draft, and I'm not sure if I'm completely satisfied with the way Penelope's POV turned out, but it was solid enough that I fucking just stuck with it. This chapter has been on the drafting board for actual **_**months**_** because my brain is stupid. Please don't hate me.**

**And Bertrand is becoming such a fun character to write! In the original show, he was so one-sided and stale, even though he had the potential to be this amazingly terrifying eldritch **_**thing**_** because of his shapeshifting abilities. I understand that it's a kid's show. But I'm here for the body-horror, dammit, not to mention the psychological breakdown that could manifest from having a form that's so fluid. **

**Also, have more soft Vlad-dad. He is confused. And kind of scared. But soft either way. Protect him. Know him. Love him. Watch him gRoW!**

**Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy the chapter, and I'll see you all in the next one!**


	18. Chapter 18

Breakfast food was the _best _kind of food.

Johnny pulled his hair up into a ponytail and grinned, watching as Kitty flitted around the kitchen getting whatever cooking stuff they needed together. Eggs – green, of course, like everything else in the Zone – and milk and the other shit she needed to make breakfast. He wanted bacon. Bacon was _delicious_. There had to be bacon here somewhere, right? Pops did not simply survive without it.

"Hey, babe, is there bacon in the freezer?" he asked, catching the can of biscuits(?) she tossed at his face. "I need the meats."

He could _feel _her rolling her eyes at him but she checked the freezer anyway. Johnny grinned and got to work opening the can – it was, in fact, biscuits – and laying the dough out on a cookie sheet. It was gonna be fuckin' _delicious_. Because Kitty was cooking so he couldn't let his bad luck and inability to be useful get in the way of That Good Shit.

"Johnny, it's your dad's lair," Kitty sighed. "You're not going to be starved for bacon. Hey, have you ever wondered why our lairs make food? We're _dead_. Shit's trippy."

A snort escaped Johnny as he shoved the biscuits into the oven, checking the torn-open tin for what temperature they needed to bake at. "Probably got something to do with habits or some shit. Why is there running water and electricity? Don't know, don't care, because a hot shower is _ace_ after a bad day, y'know?"

He could hear Kitty humming to herself, glancing over his shoulder at her, and barked out a laugh as she shoved him out of the way with her hip. She tossed a pan onto the stovetop and flicked on the gas burner. On the countertop, already (somehow) thawed and opened for easy access, was a package of bacon. Sweet, delicious, heart-attack causing bacon.

"I know, I know," she muttered. "You're not exactly big on questioning the world at large, Johnny. But _some _of us like having answers."

Johnny's grin widened, and he kissed the back of her head. "Ignorance is bliss, kitten. 'sides, I'd rather focus on what's important. Like how fast this fuckin' bacon's gonna get in my gut, c'mon!"

He let out a half-formed yell before remembering, oops, Penny and the brats were still asleep. Granted it was, like, ten in the morning, but it'd been a _long ass _night. He didn't want to piss Penelope off any more than usual because his personality tended to do that. Stupid, yes, but that was his afterlife. Johnny grinned in apology before kissing Kitty on the head again, bouncing off to do. . . .something. He'd gone to do something that he didn't remember.

What was he doing again?

The bacon started popping in the skillet that Kitty had put on the burner, and the kitchen smelled like delicious, fatty heaven. Johnny bounced his head in excitement and tried to ignore how hair kept falling from his baby ponytail. The biscuits were already starting to brown in the oven – about ten minutes left on the timer – and Kitty was already making _bacon_. Then they'd get crackin' on some eggs, maybe a bit of sausage gravy if they were feeling really spunky.

Pops had taught him a _lot _of things since coming to the Zone. Like how to curb his instinct to be a complete dick-hole because fuck authority figures. But the greatest thing he'd ever been taught, not just by Pops but by any man in his life, was how to make a good, greasy breakfast. Gravy included.

"Hey, baby, can you grab some paper towels for me and line this plate?" Kitty asked. "First batch is almost done."

Yeah it was! Johnny whistled as he slouched his way over to the paper towel dispenser, grabbing a couple of sheets off the roll before lining the large plate for her. For some reason, his mind kept circling back to _Get It On_, the old T-Rex song that'd come out when he was, like, fifteen. He was singing under his breath, so caught up in what he was doing that he didn't even realize until he looked over and Kitty was laughing at him. She looked so _pretty _when she laughed like that. Like, it made her eyes just. . . and her smile was just. . .

Shit, he'd sing the fuckin' Beatles if it meant she'd keep smiling like that forever.

"What?" Johnny chuckled. "Somethin' on my face?"

Kitty cackled and shook her head at him. "No, doofus, you've just got an _awful_ singing voice. It's like someone killed a cat twice."

Okay, that shit hurted. Just a little.

Pouting, Johnny slunk up behind her, arms wrapping around her waist. He sat his chin on her shoulder and watched as the second batch of bacon finished crisping. "I do _not_. Kitten, that's so, like, uncool."

"Aww, poor baby," Kitty teased, turning just enough to kiss his cheek. "It's rough bein' so pretty and untalented, isn't it?"

. . . why had God forsaken him? The afterlife was meaningless. This bacon was going to taste like ash. Johnny tightened his grip and grumbled into the crook of Kitty's neck. She kept giggling, finishing up the second round of bacon. He watched as she started cracking eggs into the skillet a second later to fry and frowned a bit. When had she learned to _fry_ eggs? They usually just scrambled them? Whatever – Pops had probably taught her because he was useless in the kitchen.

He was useless everywhere else, too, but that was different.

"You're mean," Johnny grumbled. "Why do I let you treat me this way?"

Another snort of laughter. "Because no other sane person would put up with your stupid-ass shenanigans."

"Hey!" This time he was _genuinely_ a little offended. "I'm the big bro, dig? The only shenanigans I get into are trying to keep Tay and Em from, like, giving Pops a ghost heart attack. Hey, come to think of it, _can _we have heart attacks? Core attacks? You're right, this shit's trippy the longer I think about it."

Her shrug lifted his head up a bit, and Kitty grabbed another plate from the stack they'd gathered to start plating her eggs. They'd fried hard – preferable to the runny disgusting sunny-side eggs Pops liked – and they looked damn good.

"Dunno, Johnny. Speaking of your shithead of a sister, you think Em's gonna come back today? I wanna know how much of all this to make. You and Tay'll wolf down about a third of it by yourselves. Em and Skulker will just need _more_, y'know?"

He did know. Ember's fire-core burned through a _lot _of ectoplasm in a day. She ate like a goddamn racehorse. Constantly. High-protein, high-calorie meals, too. And ever since Technus had helped Skulker develop his cyborg technology, he'd started consuming almost as much food. Which, in reality, was all ectoplasm. But Johnny didn't want to think about that because, um, that was disgusting. Felt like he was a cannibal or some shit.

"I dunno about Skulker, but Em'll prob'ly show here pretty quick," Johnny groaned, stretching forward to take the now-full plate of eggs and set it on the kitchen table. "She's kinda over-protective after shit hits the fan like it did yesterday. 'sides, she didn't _really_ get to hang out with Danny, either, so she'll be all over that shit."

Nodding, Kitty threw the last few lines of bacon back into the skillet to fry. "You're right. Wanna pull out some sausage for me? I didn't want to leave it on the counter while this cooked. It's in the fridge."

"'kay, babe. You want some cheese for your eggs?" he asked, rummaging through the stocked refrigerator a second later. "I think the lair knew we were comin', 'cause there's a shit-ton in here."

It was more of a feeling than actual sight, but Johnny knew Kitty lit up at the suggestion. "Ooooh, yeah! Put a bag on the table! And some jelly! I want a biscuit without gravy."

Fucking blasphemy but he loved her, so he'd allow it. Johnny grabbed all the necessary shit from the shelf and kicked the door shut. As Kitty got to work on the sausage, he could hear footsteps starting to come from upstairs. Distinct, mis-matched thumps on wood followed by a less-distinct set. He grinned to himself and stretched again.

"We're about to have company, kitten," he stage-whispered over the crackling grease.

Kitty rolled her eyes. "Good. Maybe now you'll behave yourself."

Tay walked into the kitchen a second later, hair flying all over the place and sleep nearly gluing his eyes shut. The kid yawned, and Johnny couldn't help but laugh at how rumpled his pjs were. He walked past and ruffled his hair with one hand before moving to get the biscuits out of the oven.

"Well, look who decided to join the land of the undead!" he teased. "You ready for breakfast, kid?"

Taylor rubbed at his eyes again and nodded, stumbling over to thump down in his usual seat. It took all of three seconds for him to start snoring into the table. Johnny shook his head, still grinning, as he started tossing biscuits into a big bowl.

"Hey, kid, you gotta wake up if you want to eat!" Kitty coaxed, starting to add milk and flour to the sausage and bacon grease. "I'm making gravy, and Johnny helped make some biscuits for you."

Food was usually the best way to coax Taylor awake in the morning. And by best way, they meant _only_ way. Because the kid was a stubborn little shit like Pops. Kitty's persuasion got through enough to make Taylor lift his head onto a palm, but that was about it. Johnny walked over and thumped the biscuits down on the table hard enough to make Tay's head slip off his prosthetic hand. Kid jolted awake with a muffled yell, glaring at him with an ire special _only_ to exceptionally tired children.

"What the crap, Johnny?!" he whined. "It's not even done yet!"

Johnny shrugged. "Eh – I felt like making you suffer. Where's Pen and Danny? I thought I heard 'em coming down with you."

He spoke of the devil.

She appeared, carrying a still-sleepy four-year-old on one hip and yawning into her opposite hand. Johnny blinked in shock at how fucking _domestic_ she looked. Because, in his mind, Penelope was a terrifying, put-together bitch that spent her days thinking out plans to ruin lives. She wasn't supposed to look like a hobo in a set of Pop's pj pants and a too-big t-shirt. But Kitty didn't bat an eye. She just finished stirring the gravy one final time and grinned over her shoulder at the redhead.

"Good morning!" she chirped. "Johnny and I made breakfast. Walker coming down soon?"

Penelope shook her head, and the nest of tangles atop her head shook with the motion. "No. He had some business at the prison to take care of. Said he'd be back later this afternoon?" A frown creased her forehead as she took in all the food they'd made. "Jesus, how long have you spent on this? And _why _is it all fried? We're exhausted, not hung-over."

Johnny couldn't help but snort a little. "Exhausted and hung-over are about the same thing. It's just one makes you want to throw up and the other makes you think you've died again. Or gone to Hell. Whatever fits best. Now come sit down. Everything's almost done."

It stood for the record that, for once in his afterlife, Penelope didn't glare at him like she was about to suck his core out through a straw. Johnny considered the way she sat down next to Tay without a word a personal victory. Grinning to himself, he ran over and grabbed the platter of bacon and sausage, kissing Kitty soundly just for kicks as he did so. She giggled and started filling up the gravy-boat. Which, in all reality, was a weird-shaped jug with a ladle they used because Pops always made a metric fuck-ton of gravy for breakfast.

Johnny plopped the dishes down in the center of the table, much quieter this time because, you know, Danny. He then circled the table to sit across from Taylor, leaving enough room for Kitty next to him, and started loading his plate. Biscuits, sausage, fried-eggs with cheese, and _oh yes_, bacon. All the beautiful bacon.

He glanced up and saw Penelope eyeing him over Danny's head, eyebrows raised in shock. "Oh, don't look at me like that. Dig in – there's plenty, and Pops isn't here to preach on table manners."

A jug of orange juice and the milk suddenly landed on the table, followed by the gravy-boat, and Kitty fixed him with an exasperated look. "Didja forget something, Johnny?"

"Uhhh, oops?" he chuckled.

Rolling her eyes again, Kitty slid in beside him and kissed his cheek. "You're hopeless."

"You're just now figuring this out?" Penelope snorted, bouncing Danny a bit to coax him awake. "He's been hopeless since he _got_ here." Her voice dropped to a murmur, and she stroked hair out of the kid's face. "C'mon, sweetheart, you've got to wake up. Breakfast is ready."

Danny finally lifted his head a bit, and Johnny could barely catch the bright green of ectoplasm through his bangs. "Pancakes?" he rasped.

For the first time since she'd come down, Penelope smiled, and it was fucking _soft_. "Not this morning, sweetie. But there's bacon and eggs here, and you like biscuits. You've gotta wake up for them, though."

Kitty was practically vibrating beside him trying to keep in a squeal. "Oh my _God_, that is so damn cute!"

From his spot across the table, Taylor frowned and started piling food onto his own plate. Then, thinking for a second, he quietly reached over and started adding bacon and eggs to Penelope's plate, too. Johnny lifted an eyebrow in surprise as Kitty and Penelope started up a conversation of their own. Taylor didn't say a word. He just put the full plate back in front of Penny before digging into his own food, watching out of the corner of his eye to see what would happen.

"What do you want first, baby?" Penelope broke off suddenly. "Eggs or bacon?"

She looked ready to start making a plate. Then she caught sight of the full portion in front of her and froze. A frown creased her forehead, and she looked ready to question everything until something amazing happened. Kitty was grinning, and Johnny nearly inhaled a mouthful of eggs because she _actually_ coaxed Danny into talking to her.

"Danny, do you like breakfast? It's me and Johnny's favorite," she explained, quiet but excited.

The tiny boy turned more fully towards them and nodded. "Yeah! I like pancakes!"

His voice was soft and raspy, probably because he'd damaged his vocal cords at some point, and Penelope looked ready to fall out of her chair. Taylor grinned around a mouthful of sausage. Kitty looked _entirely _too pleased with herself.

"Really?! Pancakes are my favorite, too!"

It was all super fucking normal. Johnny didn't quite know what to make of that. Especially as Danny _smiled_, and it changed his whole face. He looked like every other little boy in the world. Cuter, even, except for the whole "no-eyes" thing. There was even some baby fat starting to line his cheeks again. And he reached forward, one hand trembling just a little, to grab a slice of bacon off Penelope's plate. The first bite was followed by Pen kissing the back of his head hard, fingers tightening across the kid's belly.

"Papa makes shapes!" Danny chirped happily. "Twains an' wockets are best, I fink."

It seemed Taylor couldn't be left out for much longer. "Ah, Papa makes you pancake shapes?! Those're the best! Has he made anything else yet?"

Danny didn't startle, exactly, but it took him a second to respond. He nodded slowly, chewing on his bacon strip before answering. "Uh-huh. He. . . he made a wobot! It was cool!"

And then the two of them were giggling together, completely forgetting the adults were in the room. Penelope kissed the back of Danny's head again before starting to eat herself. Johnny doled himself out a generous portion of gravy to ignore the increasing number of Feelings around the table and smacked back Tay's hand as he did so.

"Hey!" Tay whined. "I want some too! You can't just hog it all, jerk!"

"Yeah, no. Kitty made this. It's mine now. Wait your friggin' turn."

The look in the little brat's eyes meant trouble, and Johnny started to grin, gearing up for a fight. A manly, manly fight where he could beat the _shit _out of Tay just 'cause it was his God-given right as a big brother. Danny was watching the pair of them, expression a bit wary, but still managing to power through his breakfast. So that was a win because he wasn't scared. Yet. Maybe they should wait to fight? But Tay was such a little shit.

Then Penelope had to turn on whatever Mom-powers she'd developed, and it was all ruined. "Wait your turn, brat. It's not hard. He'll be finished in a minute."

Kitty nearly snorted OJ out her nose, and Johnny inhaled a mouthful of B&G. Even though they were dying again, Penelope just watched them with a disinterested expression, calmly sipping on the glass of milk she'd just poured and coaxing Danny into taking a bite of his egg. For his part, Taylor just pouted, crossing his arms over his thin chest.

"But he _always _does this! I just want some stupid gravy."

Okay, so maybe the kid wasn't _wrong_. Gravy was a precious, precious thing and Johnny tended to just eat it straight up without thinking about other people around him, Kitty and Pops being exceptions. But _still_. Penelope fixed him with a deadpan look, glancing back and forth between the gravy, his plate, and his face.

"Johnny, you've got plenty of gravy. Give the brat the bowl." She fed Danny another bite of egg, smiling down at the little boy when he hummed happily. "It won't hurt you, for Christ's sake."

God, since when was Penny such a _mom_? Johnny grumbled but passed the gravy without a fuss, ignoring the excited grin that crossed Tay's face as he did it. As the little shit started drowning his plate in gravy, Kitty smacked at his leg under the table. Hard. Flinching, he frowned at his girl around another mouthful of food. Except Kitty waved frantically towards Pen and the boys, trying to tell him something. That he just kinda wasn't picking up?

Whatever – he looked over and nearly choked again.

Penelope was wiping gravy off Tay's cheek, ignoring his scrunched-up, disgusted expression. Danny was babbling quietly to them about how good the food was, munching happily on a biscuit. Humming, Penelope answered like there was nothing more important in the world than him, tapping Tay on the nose after she finished. He grumbled something about not being a baby. Except he then turned around and started his conversation with the younger boy again.

"Hey, Danny, you wanna watch movies when we're done?"

The little guy scrunched his nose up in thought. "What kinda movie?"

Wow, had his speech gotten better? What the fuck? Also, how did that work? They were fucking dead, why was there a VHS player in the living room? And how had they gotten movies? Maybe this was where broken electronic shit went? Johnny looked down and realized that his plate was nearly empty. Had he been space-eating again? That sucked – he couldn't really enjoy it if he wasn't paying attention. Beside him, Kitty had gotten into the conversation, grinning widely as she suggested different movies and cartoons for them all to watch.

"Wanna watch _Monster's Inc._?" Tay suggested, mouth stuffed with a gravy-covered something. "Or _Shrek_? They're funny."

Kitty snorted. "I vote _Monster's Inc_, if it matters."

"Babe, you cried for, like, twenty minutes the last time we watched it," Johnny deadpanned.

"The ending is sweet!" she tried to defend. "It's Pixar, how could you_ not _cry?!"

Penelope rolled her eyes. "Because we're grown-ups? And it's a children's movie about literal monsters in the closet?"

Suddenly, Danny – who had grown even quieter throughout their exchange – piped in with his own timid suggestion. "C-c-can we watch _Toy Story_?"

Judging by the way Penelope's eyes lit up, they were going to be watching whatever Danny requested. "Have you seen _Toy Story_ before?"

His entire face lighting in a grin, Danny nodded. "Yeah! I-I-I like Buzz bestest! He's a ast- astwonaught!"

"Yeah, he is!" Taylor exclaimed happily. "I think I got it upstairs somewhere! We'll have a pj party!"

You know, when he and Kitty had gotten up to make breakfast earlier, this wasn't how he'd pictured it all going. He had kinda expected it to be a quiet, awkward, face-stuffing affair. But this? Picking out movies for a pj party and arguing over the gravy? Not exactly in his scope of possibility. Still, looking over at how excited Kitty and Tay were, noting how calm Penelope seemed to be (for once), Johnny thought that this was probably the best way for this to have turned out.

"Alright, guys!" Kitty cheered. "Let's get all this packed up, and we'll start the laziest pj party _ever_!"

Laziest pj party. Yeah, that sounded about right.

Johnny grinned and gulped down the last of his OJ and rubbed his hands together. "C'mon, then, Tay – why don'tcha go grab some movies and we'll clean up here. 'kay?"

Hair flying, Taylor gave him a salute, gravy smeared all over his lips and chin again, and bolted back upstairs. Maybe too fast, though. Danny flinched back and huddled against Penny like a baby koala. His limbs trembled a bit, but he wasn't, you know, freezing the whole kitchen.

So. . . .progress?

"Shhh, baby, it's okay," Penny soothed. "He's just excited about our movie day, that's all. You're fine."

Quietly, Kitty started gathering up the dirty dishes to pile in the sink for a rinse, winking as Penelope mouthed _thank you_. This shit was trippy, for real. But, as Penelope got up and he heard the sound of Tay's prosthetic thundering towards the living room, Johnny couldn't help but grin. He started picking up the leftovers to pack away for Em later.

"C'mon, Danny! I'll get the movie started! We can make a blanket fort!"

Danny lifted his head from Penny's collarbone and squirmed a little bit. "Mama, let's go! It's Buzz!"

She _chuckled_ and did he just call her "mama?"

"Alright, alright, we're going!"

Sometimes, trippy wasn't such a bad thing.

~*O*~

Walker's skin itched just looking at him.

For years, he'd been hearing stories about the man chained down in the interrogation room. Terrible stories about a shapeshifter that stayed in Penelope Spectra's shadow. How Spectra was the vocal one, the one who'd break your mind open, but he was the quiet one. The scary one. The _evil_ one. How he could wrap your biggest fears around his fingers and pull them into reality. How he slunk through shadows.

It'd made Bertrand seem larger than life.

In all reality, he looked like every slimy, self-important coward Walker had ever dealt with.

The shifter hummed to himself quietly. A smile played on his gooey, amorphous face, revealing a set of razor-sharp teeth. He looked absolutely comfortable, even though he'd been chained to a table, muzzled, and wrapped in a strait jacket. There was a nerve in Walker's jaw ticking in annoyance, anger, a whole load of bad feelings he didn't care to name. His knuckles were aching.

Beside him, Bullet looked darn-near ready to blast through the two-way and throttle the shifter.

"Bastard took out three men before we could subdue him. Benson's in critical condition. Cane lost a damn _arm_ – his partner's been hysterical since he showed up." Jaw working, Bullet growled. "And he kept talking about Lydia and the kids."

"Watch yer mouth," Walker barked, but the sentiment was half-hearted. "You know he ain't goin' anywhere near them. He ain't goin' near _anybody_ ever again."

It almost felt like Bertrand was watching them, even though Walker knew dang well there was no way to see through the glass. But that didn't stop the sinking, anxious feeling in his gut every time those red eyes met his own. A slow, wicked smile started creeping up on Bertrand's face, wider and wider, until the monster started chuckling to himself.

"I know you're in there, _warden_," he practically cooed, and his voice was so oily it made Walker feel dirty. "Why don't you come in? We'll have a nice talk."

The pen Walker had been fiddling with broke with a loud _snap_! "He wants t' _talk_? Alright, we'll talk."

"Boss, wait!" Bullet's hand on his shoulder was firm. "He's gonna try and make you do something stupid. Poke and push buttons. Except he's actually _good _at it. I nearly beat him to death out in the field. Be on guard, okay?"

The look of utter fear in Penelope's eyes yesterday, the way she said _nothing's ever __**just**__ a joke, Tex_, came flooding back to him. Walker scowled. Snarled. Then shrugged out of Bullet's hold with a nod.

"I gotcha. Stay here in case I need back-up."

Even though his expression was skeptical, Bullet nodded, and let Walker leave the observation room without a fuss. Skin crawling, mind racing, the warden entered the interrogation room without bothering to keep the door from slamming against the concrete wall. Bertrand didn't seem fazed, smiling lazily behind his muzzle. There was a hungry sort of look in his eyes that Walker did _not _like.

"Ah, Warden!" he crowed. "I was beginning to wonder if you would ever come for me! Tell me, how has your morning been? Productive I hope? Mine has been less than fortuitous, but as they say, the day is still young."

Walker didn't pause. Didn't hesitate. He grabbed a fistful of the shifter's hair – which had formed sometime in the last three minutes – and slammed his face into the table. There was a satisfying _crunch!_ and Bertrand snarled. Face grim and unsmiling, Walker sat in the free chair. Ectoplasm smeared over the table before him, dripping down the shifter's lips and chin and newly-formed shirt.

It felt so _good_ to finally do that.

"Did your mother never tell you it's rude to break a man's nose before greeting him?" Bertrand chuckled, voice thick through his nose, accent slurring the words.

"Did yer mama never tell ya it's rude t'beat a lady?" Walker shot back. "Or kill an officer fer doin' his job?"

Bertrand laughed, low and cruel, and the sound crawled up Walker's spine. "To be fair, _warden_, I was alive long before officers such as yourself were the norm. Besides, I've never quite enjoyed the thought of authority figures."

He didn't even _mention_ the first part of the retort, and it just ran all _over_ Walker. Grinding his teeth and popping his knuckles, the warden sneered. "Well, y'ain't 'bout ta enjoy it. But yer _dang _sure gonna respect it by the time I'm done with ya."

"Oh?" Bertrand's grin was near-manic, ectoplasm slick over his teeth. "Was that a threat? I don't respond well to those, either. I'm sure my dear _svezda_ can tell you that."

_Nothing is ever __**just**__ a joke, Tex_. . . .

Walker had the shifter by the throat before he could stop himself, chair toppled as he started squeezing. Trussed up as he was, Bertrand could do nothing but sit there and choke. But it seemed he'd been dead long enough to overcome the instinctive panic when his airway was cut-off. The grin never left, red eyes burning. Growling, Walker tossed him back into the chair roughly.

"Penelope ain't your _anything_, you sick freak," he snarled. "You can't _own_ a woman. You can't _beat_ a woman. And I'll be _damned_ if I let you anywhere near her again, you understand me?"

That, it seemed, was enough to finally break through the false pleasantries. Bertrand's eyes widened, face morphing until it resembled something close to a vampire, long fangs and pale skin and sunken cheeks. The shifter growled like a dog, fighting his restraints for the first time since they'd been put on, and Walker took too-much pleasure in the fact that they worked so well.

"You can't keep her away from me!" Bertrand hissed, tongue flicking out like a snake's. "She's _mine!_ Not yours or that pathetic, sniveling sack of bones you call a child, _mine_! I found her. I raised her up. You can't take that from us."

Rage – at his tone, at his language, at his utter _gall_ in tryin to possess a person like a child's toy – boiled through Walker's chest. His fist slammed into the table. "Is that why you broke into _my_ lair an' _beat her_ half-silly?! Is that why she's terrified a stupid jokes and flinches when someone swings a hand too close to her face?!"

"Beat her?" Bertrand scoffed, lip curled in a sneer. "You stupid man, I'm making her _stronger_. You wouldn't understand."

"Enlighten me." Walker could feel himself shaking, tone cold enough to freeze Hell.

"Pain is _power_, warden. The more she hurts, the stronger she is, and the better she'll be in the future. She's going to be a _queen_. Don't you see it? The stars and the shadows all say so." The manic gleam returned to Bertrand's eyes, and Walker's stomach heaved at how _convicted _he was. "My _zveszda_ will be the most beautiful thing to walk this Zone. And there's _nothing _you can do to keep that from happening."

Walker just stared at him for a long moment. Hands shaking. Eyes wide. He swallowed hard, sinking back into his chair. "Yer crazy. Yer absolutely _insane_."

A wheezing bark of laughter escaped the bound man. "To the ignorant, knowledge always seems like insanity. Socrates, Nietzsche, and Voltaire were all thought to be mad in their time. Their works are now taught to young men and women around the globe, debated in the highest echelons of academics."

He almost couldn't believe what he was hearing. "You ain't serious. Jesus H. Christ, ya _can't _be serious."

Bertrand growled again, shoulders rolling unnaturally under the strait jacket. "Now why would you think that?"

The sick, all-consuming pit in Walker's stomach grew. From the stories – both from the rumor-mill and Penelope – he'd known that Bertrand was more than a little off. Heck, any man who'd beat a woman was just this side of sane or sensible. But this. . . he hadn't been ready for this.

And Bertrand _knew it_.

Slowly, his smile started to return, gleaming under the wire of his muzzle and crinkling in his eyes. They burned, feverish but laser-focused. Walker could see how many years were behind them. Decades of manipulation, destruction, crawling through the shadows and preying on all those who hadn't been fast enough to get away. On _Penelope_.

All at once, several of Pen's personality quirks, the one's he'd thought unreasonable or just plain _wrong_, made sense. How she never sat with her back to a room. How she checked the shadows, fleeting glances and pointed looks, before speaking her mind. How she snapped at him for sneaking up on her. How she hid the evidence and refused to cry, and how she hated showing emotions for anyone other than negative ones, and how she triple-checked on Danny after he went to bed because, in her mind, there was always someone waiting to snatch him away at the slightest provocation. To make her hurt because that's just how it _was_.

"Are you finally starting to see, warden?" Bertrand sing-songed. "She used to be such a fragile little thing, my _piyavka_. Always crying and asking why she had to feed on misery, why she couldn't just be pretty on her own. So self-absorbed. _I _made her stronger. _I _taught her how to feed and how to fight and how to make the pain into power."

Walker couldn't _breathe_.

"And even though you posture and you proclaim that you'll save her from the big-bad wolf, I will always find a way to get out." The voice dropped in pitch, rasping, bordering on demonic. "There's nothing you can do, warden. Don't you see? All I need is one crack. One slip-up, one shadow, one loose binding. And then she will be mine again, and we will be _free_, and then she's going to be a queen. You will be gone, I will be here, and my _zveszda_ will wear a crown like she's meant to. It's all just a matter of time."

Then Bertrand started laughing, wheezing through his shattered nose and the ectoplasm clots still trapped between his teeth.

"Do you know," he cackled, "I'll start by killing that little brat in front of her. What's his name? Danny? He makes her so soft, it's sickening." He leaned forward a little, red eyes gleaming with hellfire, and sneered, "I think I'll make her watch him Fade."

Walker _snapped_.

"You _son of a bitch_!"

Roaring, ears ringing and core throbbing, Walker launched himself over the table. Bertrand's cackle morphed into an agonized roar as a fist collided with his jaw. The skin on his knuckles were shredding on those razor-teeth, but Walker didn't care. He smashed his fist down into that smug, grinning face over and over and over. It kept morphing, moving vital structures, refusing to let him hear that satisfying _crack!_ of bone on bone. Everything hurt. His skin was too small. Too tight. There was ectoplasm _everywhere_.

Walker didn't care.

He _didn't care_.

Finally, the shifter slipped, and he caught the sound of a cheekbone shattering under the force as his fist made contact. Snarling, Bertrand twisted his head enough to catch Walker's knuckles in his jaw. The warden roared and wrenched away before there was a chance it could get bitten through. Bertrand spat out a thick wad of flesh, still laughing, still _goddamn smiling_, and suddenly Walker was being hauled away by several sets of hands. He thrashed, snarling.

"GET OFF ME! I'M GONNA KILL 'IM! GET OFF!"

Bullet's voice broke through the static after another minute or so of fighting. "BOSS! This is what he wants! You're giving him what he wants!"

Walker froze. Trembled a bit. His hands ached, ectoplasm dripping onto the floor, and there was already a bruise forming on his hip where he'd slammed into the table. Three other men held Bertrand in place, the shifter barely recognizable save for his eyes and that _damned _smile. Breathing heavily, Walker stood tall again.

"Get 'im outta here!" he barked towards his men. "Solitary Cell Four. I want 'round the clock watch an' light's up at all times! Any slack, _any _interaction without my say-so, and I'll _bury _whoever does it. Got that?!"

"Sir!" They chorused in unison, faces hard and angry under their helmets.

They made to drag Bertrand from the interrogation room. But as they did so, Bertrand lazily craned his head to look at the warden one last time. Walker's stomach lurched, core too hot in his chest. Beneath the ectoplasm and bruising and sick grin was _his face_.

"Maybe I'll look like this when I do it," the shifter crowed as a final word.

One of the guards smashed a baton into the back of his head, and Bertrand slumped forward. They carried him away, not a word between them, leaving Walker and Bullet alone.

"Hot _damn_, boss, are you okay?!" The lieutenant whistled. "I don't think I've ever heard you swear without being drunk."

Walker was still shaking with rage, grinding his teeth to dust, and he slammed his fist through the tabletop. Actually _through_ it. Chest heaving, he rounded on Bullet.

"He. . . he _broke_ her," he growled, hoarse from screaming. "Penelope's a monster because she ain't had a fuckin' _choice_! 'Makin' her strong' my ass, he just likes havin' pretty little playthings."

Judging by the look on his face, Bullet thought he'd walked into the Twilight Zone, but Walker was just too angry to care about that. "You're not wrong, boss. That was. . . Jesus _Christ_, where the hell'd he come from?!"

"I don't know, and I don't care to find out." Walker flexed his fist, feeling the bones shift and pop under the torn skin. "But he _threatened _my _family_ an' that shit don't fly. I meant what I said. 'round the clock guards, at least three to his cell, and absolutely no shadows. I want those lights on full-blast 24/7. He's too good at slippin' away. I'm gonna visit Nocturne."

"Yes, sir." Then Bullet frowned. "I thought you were going to get something from Technus? Why the sudden change to Nocturne?"

Everything hurt. His heart, his head, his fist. But Walker managed a savage grin and clapped his lieutenant – no, his _friend_ – on the shoulder.

"Because Nocturne is the best ward-mage in the Zone besides maybe Clockwork. I need a back-up plan if Bertrand manages to crawl his way outta the pit we're 'bout t'put him in."

"Seriously?" Bullet was all business, single eye boring into his own. "Nocturne doesn't do anything for free, boss. And you don't have any leverage on him. What _exactly _are you planning on asking for?"

Pushing past, Walker stalked out into the hall, ignoring the pain and the patter of droplets that followed him. "Anything. Everything. I ain't playin' games with this psycho."

"Boss, he could literally ask for just about anything!" Bullet was struggling to keep pace. "He's ancient!"

Walker stopped, staring off into nothing as he thought. He pictured Danny's smiles, the rare ones that lit up his whole face. He pictured the way his hair stood up in all directions in the morning. He pictured the way Danny and Pen would curl up on the couch and read together. The smell of baby shampoo and jasmine perfume. Quiet laughter and panic attacks and tiny feet pressed into his ribs. Then he tried to picture his life without all those things.

And he just. . . couldn't.

"Bullet, if he'd just threatened Lydia and your kids the way he did me, what would you give up t' keep 'em safe?" he asked quietly.

For a second, neither one of them moved. They just stood there in the shadows, listening to the chatter drifting up from the chow-hall. Then Bullet's expression hardened in understanding.

"_Anything_."

Walker nodded once. "There ya have it."

Turning on his heel, he phased through the ceiling, confident that Bullet would be able to take care of the prison for the rest of the day. Fading back into tangibility above the prison, he glanced around to get his bearings before setting off in the direction of Nocturne's lair a few clicks into the Western Quadrant. His hands were still shaking.

But, thinking back to the look in Bertrand's eyes, he kept going anyway.

_Like hell_, he thought.

_They ain't yers. Like __**hell**__._

~*O*~

Data Entry Seventeen

Date: 1/15/2004

Subject: Project Danny

Records Maintained by Madeleine Fenton via digital video feed

_It has been (indistinct muttering) 100 days since Danny was taken through the portal by ghosts. Since the termination of the subject "Ghost Child", no progress has been made in ascertaining where he was taken or what by. Despite extensive interrogation of multiple subjects – see Files "Vulture", "Box", and "Mummy" – no evidence to his whereabouts has been obtained. _

_They took Jazz from us, though I can't find it in me to be overly sad. Danny is what matters now. He's been gone for so long. Jazz would only get in the way of whatever progress Jack and I can make. Now, I can focus on my studies. _

_On the work. _

_As you can see, current subject "Wolf" has a canid appearance, though with remarkable differences to the standard bestial forms of his species in that he is able to communicate using language. I haven't been able to ascertain exactly what this language is – Jack thinks it's a dialectal form of Latin, but I'm leaning more towards the artificial languages, Esperanto being the main suspect – subject has been less than cooperative for testing._

_Subject has been categorized as "Extremely Dangerous" due to the dimension-warping capabilities located in his retractable front-claws. They appear to be self-renewing, even when removed from the root, so I'm curious as to why this subject seems to be more resilient that subject "Ghost Child" Perhaps it has something to do with bestial versus humanoid physiology?_

_(growling, thrashing, equipment clattering)_

_As you can see, subject "Wolf" is physically much stronger than the other ghosts we've managed to capture. Gathering any sort of useful data has been difficult. Subject also seems resistant to drugs, particularly sedation, indicating some form of hyper-metabolism. He ripped out the first three IVs we ran. Jack nearly got his arm taken off trying to run a third. _

_Let's hope a few more days of starvation will soften him up. . . _

_Until such a time we can collect useable samples, we will simply have to assume subject knows Danny's whereabouts. His ability to tear holes through the dimensional veil is much like a rudimentary form of our ghost portal. Because of this, I hypothesize that he is used as a kind of tracker, able to cross dimensions at will to capture prey. The electro-collar around subject's neck supports this hypothesis; however, until I can decipher it's answers (lies though they may be) I am unable to prove anything definitively. _

_(more snarling, a loud male yell)_

_Jack, for goodness sake, shock him!_

_Further information will be documented at a later date._

Subject: Project Danny

File Status: Pending

**A/N:**

**Welcome back to another episode of "Do I Want to Laugh, Cry, or Punch the Author In the Fucking Teeth?"**

**I'm your host, and you are absolutely right to hate me. Because I hate me too sometimes.**

**Okay, in all seriousness, thank you for sticking it out with me this long, and I sincerely hope you enjoyed this chapter. Writing this, I was kind of concerned as to whether or not I should start with Walker or with Johnny. Because do you want that good fluffy shit first, or the squick-anger-aww fest? After debating this for, I shit you not, two weeks, I finally decided on this. **

**Because fuck it.**

**Also, this chapter has shown a bit of a change in Danny's speech patterns and comfort levels that may seem wildly OOC. But, also keep in mind, he's finally accepted that Penny and Walker are his Mama and Papa now. He's accepted that they are _safe_. They are home. And, as any child that age is wont to do, he's come to a slow (VERY slow) realization that nothing will hurt him while they're around. Because of this, he feels a bit more comfortable talking, a bit less wary around people who might be strange.**

**I'll explain this all better in the next chapter, which is going to focus more on Danny, but I just wanted to explain in case any of you were like Johnny and going, "What the H-E-double FUCK is this?"**

**. . . I also made Walker say fuck. He's a good dad. He's a good man. He deserves it. Because Bertrand is a fucking PSYCHO.**

**Once again, thank you all so much for taking the time out of your days (and nights) to torture yourselves with my bullshit. It makes me so happy to see all your kind reviews, you have no idea. I hope to see you in the next one!**


	19. Chapter 19

It begins with a man and his dream.

No. No, that's not quite correct.

It begins, more accurately, with the _ghost _of a man and his dream.

And this ghost of a man has a mission lurking within that dream. It is intriguing.

Dreams can be very abstract, and self-appointed missions tend to border on the imbecilic, grandiose and arrogant. However, this dream is different. Nocturne can always tell. These dreams are those tinged in red and gold, the ones that pave the way for nightmares, for deals made and promises broken. These dreams are the ones that contain power. Not because they are of grand endeavors or future gain.

These dreams contain power because there is _passion _behind them. Emotion, raw and untamed.

Nocturne knows that these dreams will fuel him for decades.

So this man, with his dreams tinged in scarlet and laced in gold, is permitted to enter his lair. Nocturne waits patiently. He has known of this for some time. Dreams are not just of times past or present or abstract. Dreams, as the centuries have whispered, hold keys to the future. And so their master waits upon his throne, watches idly through a looking glass. Outside his lair is chaos, stones and black holes, monsters and heroes and gnashing teeth. The man does not notice them. Though, perhaps that is not correct either.

Rather, he chooses not to take the bait.

Interesting, what the right motivations will provoke in some.

Nocturne waits.

_The walker comes_, his servants whisper. _The walker waits by the gate. _

The gate is closed. Nocturne has not opened it. But it is not locked, not by standard means, and ghosts are free to enter should they so choose. He wonders if this man will take the bait. If his desperation runs deep. Many do not pass, for they don't understand the need for willpower. They do not understand true fear. That bone-deep, core-wrenching ice that sinks into every inch of one's being until there is nothing left to do but fight or break.

Nocturne watches through his looking glass.

The man stills. Narrows his eyes. They assess, probe, and he runs gloved fingers along the wrought-iron frame. He mutters to himself. Watches for unseen danger. A jaw clenches. Shoulders tighten. There is tension and something he cannot quite describe sculpted into every line of his frame. A hand hovers, hesitant, unsure. Afraid. And then that hand closes upon the handle, ignores the burn of plasma and the warning whispers, those which speak of horrible fates. It turns.

The man enters.

Nocturne leans forward upon his throne and smiles.

_The walker comes. The walker has gone through the gate_, the servants chatter. _He dreams to deal, Master_.

Blind though they are, his children see everything with a clarity others in this miserable limbo find envious.

"Allow him audience," Nocturne soothes. "We have nothing to fear."

Nocturne lounges and waits. Patience, dear children, is the highest of virtues. It takes moments that stretch into lifetimes, but the man enters his chamber, ignoring servants as they hiss and chatter around him. His eyes are hard. They are desperate. There is ectoplasm dripping between his fingers and panic seeping through his dreams.

Ahh – so _that _is why they are threaded in ebony!

This ghost of a man stops at the base of his throne. Pauses. Sweeps away the hat hiding black hair and bows his head. Nocturne quirks his lips. Tilts his own head. Amusement pulses in time with the whispers around them. Manners are _such_ a peculiarity in this place. But who is he to judge one so bold? So brash. So afraid.

It begins with the ghost of a man, his dreams, and his desperation.

"Forgive me for not being prepared," Nocturne apologizes, "but it has been ever so long since we've had a visitor. Tell me, warden, what brings you to my humble lair?"

False humility does not suit many, and Nocturne is no exception. His lair is grand, elegant marble and vaulted ceilings dripping with stars. The windows are draped in velvet. The furniture is of highest quality. He wonders if the warden can see through it all. If he can see the true nature of the beast he deals with. It rather seems he can, for this man with his hard eyes and crimson dreams does not look away. Not once. He does not look into the darkened corners, where bodies pile in heaps, trapped in dreams from which they will never awake. He does not stray to the gilded fountains or the hollow-eyed servants. He does not glance towards the mute wights lurking just behind pillars, looking for any sign of weakness to feed upon.

Instead, the warden squares his shoulders and stares into the abyss.

The abyss stares back.

"I came to make a deal, Nocturne." Such _confidence_.

Not arrogance. Nocturne has seen plenty of those in his time, swaggering men and simpering women without the faintest idea that they had walked into the lair of someone truly to be feared. For dreams are where truths lie, and truth is a powerful thing.

No, the warden is cautions. Respectful. Wary, even. But confidence is also a virtue to be admired, and Nocturne cannot help the slow grin that slides across his lips. One finger traces the rim of his looking glass. It ripples, thousands of dreams drifting along its surface. A girl finding her long-lost brother, a man in love with his best friend, a scientist praised for her work. A boy with no eyes, who dreams of a world where his mama and papa love him, where his sister gives him hugs, where no one will ever hurt him again.

"Oh?" Nocturne cannot help but tease. "I was under the impression that Warden Walker did not make deals. Perhaps my sleepwalkers were mistaken in giving me that information."

The ghost of a man grimaces and it is something to behold, the way his gaze flickers towards the eyeless servants surrounding him. Nocturne hasn't been this entertained in some time. The confident ones are always more fun to break down. To crack apart like an egg and see what delicious yolk pours out. Alas! The story has just begun!

"I normally don't make deals." It is bitten off, begrudging, and Nocturne revels in the thrill of it all. "But this is too important."

_The walker is strong, _they hiss. _The walker does not break. The walker will make a deal and we will not see the wreckage_.

Nocturne is not concerned with them. Pesky little things, always panicking when he decides to play with his new toys. Instead, he lifts a brow, allows his smile to widen a bit and relishes the discomfort in the ghost-of-a-man's subconscious. Dreams do not always occur when asleep, and sometimes he can observe them while a person is completely awake. These are just flickers. Emotions, raw and unfiltered, painted in short bursts across a psyche.

Claws. Ectoplasm. Teeth. A jagged smile caked in blood. Cold laughter. Whispers from the dark. Heartbroken, terrified eyes. Such a shade of _green_!

Nocturne removes his hand from the looking glass. Leans forward towards the warden. "What is so important that you wish to make a deal with me? Surely you are strong enough to defeat any manner of _criminal_, law-keeper."

And here is where the beginning reaches the story, Nocturne knows.

The warden grinds his jaw. Furrows his brow. Glances towards the servants with no eyes and the slaves with no tongues. Tries and fails not to listen to whispers that echo from the stars overhead. But he is confident and brave and gathers himself in mere moments. It is almost impressive.

Almost.

"My family has been threatened by someone I can't contain forever," the warden explains, voice choked with self-directed anger. "I need wards. Strong ones. Somethin' that'll keep 'em safe if he gets out."

Nocturne's smile will never fall. This is delicious. "May I ask what sort of creature has you so very desperate? If you wish to deal, the contract must be very specific. Wards are complex, tailored to each individual, and require a good bit of energy to create. I will need to know what they will face."

The warden meets his eyes and there's such _anger _there, such passion. It's almost enough to make a man crumble. But this is just the ghost of a man and Nocturne is not like those around him. He meets the fury with amusement, the passion with serenity, and waits patiently. All things come in time. And Nocturne is a master of dreams.

He has all the time he needs, thanks to dear Clockwork.

"You ever heard of Bertrand?" It is a simple question, but the words drip hatred, venom, scorn.

Nocturne finds himself shocked for the first time in centuries. His servants knew this walker would come. They knew he was going to make a deal. However, they did not know the details, and they could not tell him _why_. And so he sits, staring at a man's ghost as surprise wars with disgust in the belly of his core.

"My, my," he whispers, "you do have a problem, law keeper."

The warden shifts, and the tension in his shoulders bleeds red. "I take it ya have? Heard of him?"

Nocturne stands. Looms over the smaller ghost as he sweeps down the steps from his dais. The servants scatter. The wights linger in the background. And his eyes, those that have seen ten-thousand dreams, stare into Walker's own. They are met boldly. Stubbornly. Determination dripping from them and his dreams, the ones with a terrified boy and the woman he calls "mama", are shrouded in fear. For once, Nocturne does not blame a soul.

"I have known of that monster for nearly ten centuries, little _warden_," Nocturne drawls, learning forward with narrowed eyes. "His powers are. . . unsettling, for one such as I. It is one thing to feed from the emotions of dreams. Those are latent, and I cannot change them. It is quite another to take another's emotions and twist them to something dark. He has destroyed many of my dreamers over the years."

The walker looks skeptical, as though he cannot believe a truth when he hears it. "You're tellin' me that Bertrand's _that _old? I thought only you an' Clockwork had ever been here longer'n five hundred years."

Though his face and words are skeptical, the tone is respectful, and Nocturne hums in acknowledgement. "Many are under this impression. But a ghost can exist as long as his mind allows. And Calder's mind has twisted like his body. He will remain here until it finally snaps from the strain. Even Pariah could see that."

Nocturne doesn't pause to watch the expression of horror flit across the warden's face. Instead, he sweeps deeper into the shadows of his lair, listening to his servants whisper along the way. "Come, warden! There is work to be done and not a moment to spare."

He does not turn. He does not linger. Instead, Nocturne listens for the sound of the warden's flight-pattern following behind. There are dreams flitting back in again. The image of a woman, with those bright emerald eyes, smiling. The same woman, with bruised cheeks and a bloody nose. She is smiling. She is crying. She does not ask for help and the warden wishes to scream. It is a deep ache, and even a master of dreams knows when to look away.

His inner sanctum is shadowed, the stars overhead twisted into abstract. There is jasmine in the air, bergamot and sandalwood. Whispers, shimmers, and magicks. Dreams are how mortals connect with magick. As their master, Nocturne has access to all these, particularly those based in emotions. The ones that strive to protect, to defend, or attack and destroy. The warden enters and Nocturne pulls a tome from a nearby shelf, tracing ancient words with one finger as he decides which ward-magicks he wishes to provide. He finds the glyphs with relative ease, whispers the old tongue and feels the air crackle, and chooses.

"Warden, come," he orders. "I have found the rituals."

The walker, with his bold-wary eyes, floats into the circle at the room's center as Nocturne gestures. The servants whisper. Excitement pulses. _The walker does as foretold. We shall see the wreckage! Master shall have the dreams_.

Yes – he shall have these dreams as any master should.

However, the wreckage may not come as his servants so desire. Nocturne stares down the walker with magicks clutched in a palm. He is large and still and deadly as a serpent. But the man does not cower. He does look away. He squares his jaw and waits for whatever instructions he is to be provided. Some would call this foolishness. Some would call this reckless pride. At one point, Nocturne would have called this misplaced loyalty, mindless and all-encompassing.

Instead, he considers this bravery, unconditional love, self-sacrifice.

The beginning has come to its end. And the story has arrived at last.

"Before I enact the magicks, we must discuss payment," Nocturne drawls. "These are strong wards. Their abilities will be keyed to your very core, to your connection with your lair and your family. They do not come without cost. Think carefully, warden, and decide what you will sacrifice."

But the man, this ghost of a man, does not hesitate. Not even for a moment. Instead, he looks Nocturne in the eyes and says, "I'll give you anything. Everything. Just keep 'em safe, an' I'll pay the price."

The possibilities are _endless_ with such a declaration. Nocturne's mind swirls. Devastation and bloodshed and tears and heartbreak, the absolute destruction of one man, all for the safety of five. To someone so ancient, it seems foolish. But then he thinks to the glimpses he receives from this man's dreams. Of the fear in a child's non-eyes. Of the way he clings to the woman's smile, rare as a precious stone. Of the laughter, the brightness, the struggle of keeping everything together for those shining moments when everything was perfect.

It is a foolish declaration made by a desperate man.

For once, Nocturne will not use it frivolously.

"A bold statement," he hedges. "You are aware I could ask for anything? Anything at all that is within your power to give, I could take."

The walker pauses. Swallows. Clenches his fists to hide how they shake and that bold gaze drops for the first time.

"I know," and it is a quiet concession, desperately afraid. "But it's the only chance I got."

Nocturne knows this as well. But the admission takes courage. So he nods, considers, and decides. "Of course, warden. For these wards, I require one thing. Your dreams. All of them, for the rest of your time in the Ghost Zone, shall be mine to collect. Do you accept this payment?"

The glyphs grow hot in his hand, and Nocturne whispers the incantations to merge them with the walker in the back of his mind. Another thick swallow and the man's eyes harden with resolve. "I do."

Nocturne smiles. Extends his hand to shake. "The bargain is struck."

Dreams tinged in red and gold. The image of a boy with white hair and no eyes. A woman's smile, beautiful and sad. Teenagers arguing through grins. Another boy, green hair, and a wild energy that could bring the Zone to its knees. A family around a table.

"I accept."

And the black-gloved hand is clasped in his own. Nocturne's smile grows savage, a feral thing in his face, and the stars above shine brighter. Servants whisper without tongues. See without eyes. Heat curls from the glyphs, burning hotter and hotter until smoke begins to pour from their joined hands. The walker falls to his knees. Chokes back a scream. The heat is visible as it crawls along his arm, abstract patterns and ancient tongues designed to protect. Designed to take. Designed to defend.

They reach his chest, burrow into his core, and the walker _screams_.

_Dream a pretty dream, or conjure up a nightmare, but the dreams you dream from this point on are ours forevermore. . . _

A pretty little tune, crooned in a hundred voices. Nocturne chuckles, then laughs from the belly. The walker's jacket has charred away. He can see the wards burrowed black into his skin. Glyphs from the old days and passages from Roman text swirling elegantly along white flesh. There is power in these. More power than he realized, and it is not often the master of dreams finds himself surprised by the magick trapped in another's emotions. Dreams are fickle. They can hurt or they can heal.

These dreams should prove invigorating at the very least.

Whispering, chanting, Nocturne completes the glyph-pattern by declaring, "And the contract is sealed."

He releases his grasp easily. The walker slumps to the ground, choking back another scream as his charred flesh meets marble floors. Nocturne leans forward to observe his handiwork. The glyphs are solid. There are no spaces, no uneven lines to suggest fault in the magicks. This Zone is so strange and spirits are as fickle as their dreams. Sometimes, skepticism interferes with the transfer. But that is not the case here, and so the transfer is as it should be.

Perfect.

The walker rises on trembling arms and legs. His hands shake, hair askew atop his head. The ward-glyphs are a solid contrast to such pale skin. Nocturne begins to glide from his sanctum once more.

"Come along, warden," he calls pleasantly. "No sense in dithering about. Those wards will fully activate once you reach your lair. The sooner you can make it there, the sooner you will be free of pain."

It is slow, but eventually he hears the walker's flight resume, and Nocturne smiles once more. They reach the main chamber without fuss, servants and wights fluttering about without interference. Though this ghost of a man is now injured, they will not attack. Not when he is so clearly marked.

"What even _was _that?" the law-keeper wheezes. "It was. . . ."

Nocturne settles back into his throne with a chuckle at his own joke. "Oh, dear, I suppose I forgot to warn you. Ward-magicks are quite painful. Especially ones with the strength to hold off a monster such as Calder. Be proud of yourself, dear boy. You took the pain much better than many of those who came before you."

It takes a moment. But then there is recognition in the pain-glazed eyes, confusion in the furrowed brow. "Calder? You mean Bertrand ain't his name?"

Nocturne tuts. "Names are transient things. They do not hold the same sway here as in life. One must change when they grow as old as Calder. But _I _am older still. I remember the days before Bertrand, when Calder was a warrior rather than a monster. I remember. But this world, and perhaps Calder himself, have forgotten. 'tis a pity, really."

The walker is in pain. Tremendous pain. Nocturne can see it bleeding into the recesses of his dreams, black like spilled ink and tar. However, his mind is still sharp, and he is trying to fit the puzzle pieces together. Such a curious thing, this man and his dreams.

"Now, as I said before, your wards will activate once you reach your lair," Nocturne explains, languid upon his throne. "There is no spell, no incantation. Merely touch the ground and they will work. They will protect anyone you wish them. I discourage you from choosing too many to protect, however. This magick feeds upon your emotions. It will drain you if you are not careful."

Slowly, the walker nods. "I understand."

Nocturne smiles once more, indulgent and sharp in equal measure. "Excellent! My servants shall see you to the door. And remember, should you ever need to ask something of me, you shall know where to find me."

As the servants drag him away, eyeless and forever-whispering, the walker looks back in confusion. Nocturne allows the air to darken. Allows his eyes to shine vermillion from the belly of shadows. Relishes the expression of realization washing over this ghost of a man, the full force of what he has bargained. Dreams are powerful, fickle things. They bind and divide, terrify and bring happiness.

"I shall see you in your dreams, dear warden."

The door closes.

Nocturne waits, chuckles, and glances back to his mirror. Wights with no tongues begin to chatter in his ears once more. There are others, in this Zone. Ghosts who have seen the other side and know the monsters that live there. The monsters that seek to invade, to destroy. The monsters that seek to escape. Their dreams have begun to pour in. Desperation salts the earth and poisons the ectoplasm.

He sees another man in his looking glass. More precisely half a man, half a ghost. His dreams are of power. Of glory. Of a woman wrapped in blue, with violet eyes and a smile that cuts like a sharpened dagger. A little girl, with red hair and a shy smile, who looks upon him with adoration and whispers "Papa" like a prayer. Intriguing, this half-a-ghost, but not the same. These dreams are tinged in silver, in bronze, in violet. A conqueror's dreams.

It has begun with the ghost of a man and his dreams tinged in gold. Nocturne has done his part. Has set the stage.

How, dear Clockwork, shall it end?

~*O*~

danny thinks that having big brothers is gonna be lots of fun.

his tummy is full from breakfast and he's still tired, still sore, but tay and johnny are helping him make a blanket fort in the living room so they can watch movies. sometimes, back before he was a bad boy, jazzy used to make these with him. but danny doesn't want to think about jazzy right now because it makes him sad he misses his sissy so much sometimes so instead he giggles when johnny falls over trying to tuck the blankie into the couch, and he helps tay scoot the coffee table so they can lay on the floor. there's lots of pillows 'cause kitty brought them down and mama is sitting in papa's chair because she doesn't wanna be on the floor.

that's okay.

danny still has tay and johnny.

"Alright, it's all set!" johnny cheers, and danny snuggles down into his own blankie under the fort. "Tay, you got the movie in?"

"Yep!" and taylor flops down next to him, but very gentle, like he doesn't wanna hurt danny on accident. "Hit play, Penny!"

it's kinda weird, danny thinks, being with so many people after so long. he used to be very scared of them because cut burn break hurt "where's my danny, ghost?" and other people could hurt him if they weren't mama or papa. danny is tired of hurt and tired of scared and tired of cold. but he thinks that tay and johnny and kitty are different? 'cause johnny is still kinda loud and he smells funny, like uncle robert before he stopped living with aunt alicia, smoke and ash, but he's also got a happy smile and he talks to danny like he's a grown up. and tay keeps forgetting that danny doesn't like to move fast, doesn't like loud, but he always apologizes, and he even let danny pick out which movie they're going to watch. and he doesn't know kitty very well yet, but she's got a pretty smile and she made him _breakfast_ so she can't be bad, right?

it's so weird.

but it's also kind of cool.

mama rolls her eyes and blows air out of her nose like what she sometimes does with papa, but she's also kind of smiling, so she turns on the movie without saying anything. danny watches and his tummy flutters with butterflies because it's been _so long_ since he's gotten to watch a movie. _Toy Story _is his favorite 'cause buzz lightyear is a space explorer, and even though he's a toy, danny wants to be just like him when he gets big. he wants to explore the stars and help people. jazzy always liked woody best but danny doesn't understand that 'cause he's kinda mean to buzz.

tay nudges against his side with his robot hand and danny giggles again. there's static in the arm and it tickles. johnny flops down on the other side, laying upside down, and flops one arm over danny's back until it smacks tay.

"How are you nerds still awake?" he groans. "I'm beat."

he's very dramatic about it, the other arm flinging over his eyes. danny pokes him in the cheek, and there's fuzzies on his finger, which is very strange 'cause papa _never _has fuzzies in the morning, only at night. _you okay_? he whispers, 'cause it would be sad if johnny couldn't have fun with them just because he was tired.

tay snorts and danny tries not to flinch away, even though he knows that he (probably) isn't gonna get hurt. "He's fine, Danny. Johnny's just a big whiny baby."

johnny lifts his arm up and wraps around them both like an octopus, and danny can't stop giggling even though taylor is complaining 'cause there's a fuzzy cheek tickling him and getting hugged like this is great. it's like a papa hug but not? it's hard to explain, even in his head, but danny thinks that johnny's a good big brother 'cause his hugs are tight and warm but they don't hurt, not even on an accident.

"Aww, Tay, that's so _mean_!" johnny whines. "Why're you so mean to me? Don't you love me? Aren't I the best big brother you could ask for?"

"Geroff you big fat-head!" tay grumbles, even though he's not fighting 'cause danny's in the way. "You smell gross!"

danny keeps giggling. mama is smiling but she's trying to hide it behind her hand. he can always tell 'cause her eyes turn bright, like stars. kitty laughs out loud and it kind of startles him. danny is crying and someone is laughing, laughing, laughing and he can't _see_ mommy so scared but then tay kind of giggles, too, and johnny ruffles his hair before he rolls over to let them watch. woody is holding his meeting. rex is upset 'cause he doesn't think he's scary.

danny doesn't understand why someone would ever _want_ to be scary, but rex is very nice, so he just laughs and watches. he kicks his legs up and down, even though they kind of shake and still don't always do what he wants and rests his head on his hands. taylor does the same next to him. the lights on his robot hand are blinking green, and danny can hear gears when the fingers move. it's warm in the blanket fort, warm where johnny and taylor are pressed against his sides.

maybe. . .

maybe things could always be like this?

he glances at mama, and she smiles at him, winks 'cause she's smart and always knows when he's nervous about something. his body relaxes a little. they're quiet for a little bit. danny snuggles a bit closer to johnny 'cause he's got the big pillow, the one papa sometimes uses for nap time. the toy soldiers are going downstairs with their walkie-talkie. no man is left behind did he leave jazzy behind? and danny thinks that's a very brave thing to do. papa would be that brave. and mama, even though she says she's grumpy with other people.

danny wonders if he will ever be that brave.

there's another sound, like a door opening, and danny freezes. his shoulders are tight. his chest hurts. and he hasn't been cold since he fell asleep yesterday morning, when it sank into him so deep it made his bones hurt, but now he can feel it starting to creep back in. cool, the cooler, then cold. very cold in his chest. it hurts his lungs, his heart, his head. footsteps, heavy like boots, on the floor. and then danny sees the other girl – ember? – from before, with pretty blue fire hair. the cold goes away. his fingers stop shaking.

'cause taylor is holding his hand and mama is _right there_, and johnny's arm is wrapped around his back again. they are safe. this is safe. he's _safe_ no you're not.

"'sup, bitch?" johnny calls, and danny tries not to giggle 'cause papa would be _real_ angry if he heard johnny using naughty words.

"Get fucked, nerd, where's the food?"

mama starts laughing. she's laughing really hard actually, even though she's got her hand over her mouth again, but danny can see her shoulders shaking. he thinks it's silly that grown-ups try to hide when they've got the giggles. mama's got a pretty laugh. but johnny kind of tenses next to him, and danny looks over and sees that he's kind of frowning.

"Hey, watch it! There's a _baby_ here!" he grumps.

"Cool. Let the baby say 'fuck'. Maybe Papa will finally have that stroke we've been waiting on." ember walks away, and her big boots with skulls on them clunk into the kitchen.

now danny frowns and he mumbles, _'m not a baby_ even though he doesn't think that johnny hears him.

tay pats him on the back and whispers, "This is what it's like being the baby brother, Danny. Kinda sucks, but you'll get used to it."

still frowning, danny says, _but I already am the baby. that's what jazzy says 'cause she's older_.

he can hear johnny and ember talking to each other, and he thinks that ember might be eating 'cause he can smell food again. but there's something weird about the way taylor looks at him, a frown in the middle of his forehead, and he leans more into johnny's side to get away. has he said something wrong? is he being bad again? doesn't know but doesn't wanna be.

"Who's Jazzy?"

and then danny's shoulders relax again. that's an easy question. he smiles, plays with a thread on his blankie. on the screen, the toys are talking to buzz. he doesn't know he's an action figure, yet, but sometimes danny thinks it's okay to not know things. jazzy says if you don't know something, you just get to learn it later, and that makes the things more fun.

so he answers _jazzy's my big sissy. she's six, so she goes to school. i miss her sometimes_.

not sometimes. all the time. danny misses jazzy when he wakes up and he misses her at breakfast and he even misses her when mama's tickling his tummy and telling him how brave he is, how much she loves him, because he thinks that mama would really love jazzy, too. tay would probably like being jazzy's big brother 'cause she may not play loud or fast like him but she thinks of the coolest stories. but he knows that jazzy's a good girl, not like him. so mommy and daddy still love her like from before.

it makes his tummy feel all sad.

danny sniffles and drops his head. there's a hand squeezing his. the fingers are cool, metal. he thinks that johnny and ember are still talking to each other. woody and buzz are arguing on the tv, wrestling 'cause woody's jealous, 'cause buzz still believes he's a space ranger. and then buzz falls out of the window. he's all alone.

sometimes, danny feels a little like that.

"You've got a big sister? Is. . . is she like us?" taylor sounds curious but there's something else too that danny can't quite figure out.

but he smiles and shakes his head anyways because _no, jazzy still lives with mommy and daddy. she's a good girl. they still love her. _

yeah, jazzy's always been good. danny pulls at another thread on his blankie and tries to watch the movie instead of the way taylor's face changes. woody is lying to his friends. that's bad. you should never ever lie 'cause that's stop lying stop lying tell us where danny is stop lying cut hurt break burn needle can't see very cold stop **lying** bad and it can get you in lots of trouble. taylor stops asking questions. and danny is glad. he doesn't want to talk about jazzy right now. it makes his tummy hurt.

ember comes back in. she's got food on a plate, piled high, but her shoes are by the door and she squeezes in beside tay anyways. her makeup is different today. there aren't any black tears, just big swoops running up towards her hair. she smiles, and danny can see the ring that's in her lip. it's bright silver.

"_Toy Story_, huh? Pretty good pick, baby pop." her smile is nice, even if her eyes are a little mean. "How'd ya get these dweebs to watch it with you?"

"Hey!" taylor swats around when ember ruffles his hair too hard. "Cut it out! We _all _picked this one, you dumb hoe!"

kitty swats at their feet and danny shrinks down, tries not to cry, hides his head in the pillow and counts like mama taught him. one, two, three, four. but there's no screaming. no hitting. no cutting. no dark. just kitty telling taylor to watch his mouth and ember laughing. by the time he gets to ten, the world isn't so scary anymore. it's safe to come out again, he thinks.

he looks up from the pillows and ember is watching the movie with them, munching on some bacon and biscuits. taylor whispers a "sorry" and starts watching, too. it's quiet. johnny ruffles his hair really gentle, like papa does sometimes, and danny smiles again. this is _nice_. because he loves mama and papa more than anything but it's not the same as having someone to build pillow forts and watch movies with, even though sometimes other people are scary.

danny huddles closer to johnny and rests his head on the pillow, likes the way johnny's arm is cool under his cheek. taylor and ember are arguing kind of like woody and buzz except danny thinks they like each other more. ember is sharing her biscuits, and you don't share food with people you don't like at least a little bit. sometimes jazzy wouldn't share her snacks with him and she loved him a whole lot.

"Oh, these little guys are so stinkin' cute!" it's kitty, and her voice is really high-pitched but not loud. "This is my favorite part of the whole movie!"

there's a giggle lodged in danny's throat. he wants to laugh, honest, but there's something about the big claw that makes his chest hurt. the little green aliens look squishy and cute, and danny thinks it's sad that they have to live in a big machine for so long. but he can't look at the claw, not with it's shiny metal and grabby hands, and listening to sid laugh makes him nervous.

ember makes a snorty sound. "It would be, ya friggin' princess."

it's quiet for a second, but then johnny and ember both start laughing. tay rolls his eyes, kicks his legs up in the air again. danny doesn't understand what happened. grown-ups are weird. even if they're big brothers or sisters.

"Okay, if one of you teaches him how to flip people off, and I get blamed, someone _will_ Fade." mama sounds annoyed, but not angry, so that's good.

"Pen, you called me an asshole in front of him two weeks ago," johnny complains, and danny giggles a little bit. "And you just let Em say the f-word in front of him two _minutes_ ago."

mama gives johnny a look. danny knows that means he's in trouble, 'cause mama always gives that look to papa when she thinks he's being dumb. "Danny knows better than to use swear words, right baby?"

danny nods his head and crawls out of the fort, answers _uh-huh!_ even though it makes his throat hurt a little.

climbing into mama's lap is harder than it should be, but danny smiles when she helps him up, and snuggles in against her chest. she kisses his head, rubs his back. he thinks that mama might be grinning at johnny. he peeks out and taylor is frowning a little bit, arms crossed under his chin, and ember keeps laughing behind one hand. that's okay.

mama kisses his head again. his belly is full and it's warm and he's _safe_. it makes his eyes heavy. but he doesn't _wanna_ sleep, he's slept so much. how come he's gotta sleep so much? mama told him that it's 'cause his body is still trying to get better, trying to be healthy after being hurt for so long. but that doesn't mean he's gotta _like_ it.

"Oh, Christ's sake, Taylor – don't sit there and pout. If you want to sit up here, too, all you have to do is _ask_."

mama sounds a little annoyed. but only a little. danny laughs again. he snuggles in tight again, let's mama run her fingers through his hair and watches woody and buzz even though his eyes don't wanna stay open. taylor is blushing. but he crawls out from under the fort anyway and runs up to them. mama lets him sit on her other side, smooths his hair out and kisses his forehead.

"Dawww!" ember and johnny make the same noise together, and danny ignores them even though taylor's cheeks turn even darker green.

"Both of you shut it," mama growls, and that's her scary voice. "If he wants to sit with Danny, he can sit with Danny."

woody is telling buzz that he can fly, that he might be a toy but that just means he's _special_. and danny can't hardly keep his eyes open anymore. mama kisses his forehead one more time.

"Geez, since when are you such a _mom_, Penny?" ember sounds grumpy. "I thought you were cooler than that."

that's a little mean.

"Oh you should've seen it at breakfast earlier," johnny laughs. "He sat on her lap and ate breakfast. It was the _cutest_ shit, I swear to – oww! What the hell, kitten?!"

danny drags his eyes open. johnny's holding his head and kitty looks mad at him, arms crossed. ember is smiling and munching on her last piece of bacon, even though there's a confused look in her eyes. he thinks that taylor might be laughing next to him, but he's so _sleepy_. he just doesn't have it in him to look.

"You're both acting like a couple of shitheads! Leave them alone and watch the friggin' movie!"

johnny grumbles, but he doesn't stop kitty when she gets down into the fort they made and snuggles under his arm. "Alright, alright. I gotcha, yeesh!"

"Well, I know who's pussy-whipped in _this _house," ember sing-songs, and danny doesn't know what that means but mama whispers that he shouldn't repeat it, so he keeps it on his list of naughty-words to never say around papa.

this time, ember says "ow!" 'cause kitty kicks her in the knee and grumbles, "Shut it, bitch."

mama sighs and mumbles, "Jesus, no wonder your dad's a neurotic mess."

danny doesn't know what neu-ro-tic means, but it makes taylor giggle, and then everything is quiet again. _Toy Story _is still playing. danny thinks that buzz is flying, 'cause the music has gotten loud, but he's just too sleepy to watch anymore. even though it would be really nice to fly again. maybe he could get papa to carry him like buzz carries woody. probably not – papa always holds him tight, right up against his chest, so he won't fall.

but it would still be nice.

"Thanks for letting me sit here, Pen," taylor whispers.

mama kisses him on the head. danny knows 'cause he can hear the sound of it. "Thanks for being a good big brother. Even though you don't have a very good example."

"Hey! I heard that!" johnny grumbles.

"You were meant to," is all mama says, and danny can hear the smile in her voice.

he's warm and full and safe, and even though his misses jazzy lots, danny thinks that maybe having big brothers –

"Jesus, and I thought _I _could roast you."

"Fucking shut it, Em."

. . . and two more big sisters is going to be a lot of fun, too.

"We're not aiming for the truck. . ." and buzz drops them into the box and they all live happily ever after, danny remembers.

he falls asleep smiling.

**A/N: I have a test tomorrow. I have two tests Wednesday. So what do I do? Finish this chapter - even though it's a bit shorter than those that came before it - and post it like lightning because the procrastination monkey demands it.**

**I'm a pathetic waste of human flesh.**

**Anyway! I have returned with fresh words and lots of bullshittery for you to consume! Now, Nocturne is not a perspective that we will be returning to in the near future. However! He is just oodles and gobs of fun to write because, holy shit, the possibilities are endless, let me tell you! I think Nocturne and Danny's ice-powers were like the only good thing to come out of season 3 in canon, and I wanted to expand on what his character could have been in this universe. Now, because magick and science are both Things in this universe, I needed him to be this enigmatic, mysterious kind of ethereal being. He's kind of like Clockwork in the sense that he's just amazingly fucking old. But at the same time he's not because while Clockwork is all about maintaining the balance and stability of the dimensions, Nocturne is all about preserving their dreams and himself. **

**I also expanded Nocturne's abilities into a kind of pseudo-telepathy. Anything that's even remotely close to a dream - a day-dream, a flashback, anything like that - is fair game. But he's also not completely amoral. The guy does sort of know when lines have been fucking crossed. However, that doesn't mean you can ask for freebies. You want the magick, you pay the price. Think Rumplestiltskin from OUAT. You know, before it got really shitty in Season 4. . . **

**So, after all that, I have to think you guys once again for being such amazing readers and support. Seriously, I don't know if I could continue without all your lovely comments. That being said, leave me one in the box below! Questions, criticisms, anything at all is welcome, and I'll be more than happy to respond to whatever you have to ask. **

**Hope to see you all in the next one!**


	20. Chapter 20

The pain was. . .

He couldn't even _describe _it.

Everything was pain and pain was everything. His head was swimming, every single muscle in his body seizing in on itself as he tried to make his way home.

Walker had been burned before. He'd been beaten before. He'd been _stabbed _and _shot _before. But he'd never experienced anything that felt like all four things at once. His lungs wouldn't fill all the way because his ribs felt like they'd been kicked in. His core throbbed angrily in his chest. There wasn't one solitary inch of his torso, or even his limbs, that didn't throb and burn like hellfire.

. . . this probably wasn't the smartest idea he'd ever had.

Focused as he was on the absolute agony that came from being _branded_, Walker didn't see the drifting hunk of rock until it was too late. It was smaller than usual. Probably only about the size of a softball. But then the chunk bumped into his shoulder and his vision went white. Walker could feel himself drop, stomach heaving, limbs shaking. He screamed.

He _screamed_.

Landing hurt even worse, all his bodyweight pressed onto the inflamed glyphs, and Walker managed to roll just fast enough to avoid puking all over himself. He lay on his side and retched for a few minutes. Tears blurred his vision. The whole Zone was spinning. Everything hurt, like his entire body was on fire and getting beaten with a baseball bat. At the same time. It was just. . .

_Jesus Christ_, what had he gotten himself into?!

"Warden?"

. . . this wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening. _Why _was this happening?!

Groaning, sweating, and thoroughly not in the mood, Walker looked in the general direction of Technus's voice. And there he was. Staring at him through those thick black-out glasses with a shocked expression that Walker wanted to punch off his friggin' _face_. Except that would involve touching someone and moving. So he settled for grinding his teeth and barking, "What?!"

He meant to bark it out like usual. It was best to intimidate when you were a warden of a prison, after all. What _actually _came out was a hoarse, pathetic croak that sounded more like a whipped dog than a command. Technus stared at him, mouth agape, which made Walker want to punch his teeth down his throat even more. Except his arms wouldn't move. Or his legs. Or anything that wasn't his neck.

"Wow, if I had known this would be what I found, I would have brought a camera!" Technus proclaimed. Loudly. And dramatically.

Walker somehow found the strength to sit up, head swimming as his body screamed at him and core burning like his skin. He was trying to glare at the techno-genius. Because he didn't need anyone else figuring out about his situation. Except his _face hurt_ and it wouldn't do what he told it to anymore. Instead, a muscle spasmed in his gut and he doubled over. The pain blinded him again, fireworks dancing behind his eyelids, and he gagged.

"Ohhhh, boy, that's not good."

From very far away, somewhere out in Timbuktu, Walker could hear something that sounded like concern in Technus's voice. Except he couldn't force himself to care. It hurt. It _hurt_. the private is screaming and his legs are gone and the burns all over his face smell like cooked meat and he's shrieking it hurts it hurts it hurts gunny help me But he took a deep breath and held it through the sharp, twisting pain behind his ribs to keep from puking. Again.

Then something _touched him _and the corpse has white eyes and smiles and there's blood on its teeth mud on its skin and it smells like cooked meat Walker nearly crumpled again. Something popped in his jaw, static in his ears, bees and fire ants crawling under his skin, in his chest, stinging everything they could touch. The thing didn't let go, clung tighter, and it was like being underwater again. His head was splitting open. Skull cracking. Bones crunching. Skin blistering, peeling, chafing away.

the private smiles and his teeth are black and _it's all your fault_ and he'll never get the smell out of his nose, charred meat and gangrene and gunpowder and mud and somewhere a wolf is howling are there even wolves in Germany? it doesn't make sense but the private is still grinning and someone is screaming and

"Warden? Warden, I'm going to pick you up. We have to go."

Technus? Why was he hearing Technus?

Oh, right – the little guy had found him.

Walker managed to not scream when one of his arms got lifted, but he couldn't hold back a groan when his body was

p

u

l

l

e

d

u

p

and everything just burning fire pain can't hear too many shells his toes are cold boot and socks and skin soaked through with mud blood rainwater and everyone is starving and we are dying and the private's eyes have sunken in his head but they can't bury him yet, the germans are still firing and he can't breathe without smelling rot and his mouth tastes like gunpowder and he wants to go _home_ and

dissolved into static in the back of his head. Somewhere, he was sure that Technus – who was dramatic and loud and _obnoxious_ – was either panicking or laughing at his good fortune. Other than Plasmius, Walker had slapped more real-world contraband charges on the mad-scientist wannabe than anyone else in the Ghost Zone. So this was going to end one of two ways.

One: he was gonna get drug out to a rock in the middle of nowhere, far from his lair, and left for some monster to eat.

Two: he was gonna be shot through with ectoplasm and left to Fade because Technus wasn't always a peach.

Neither choice was preferable because he'd done this to protect his family. To keep them _safe_. And now he was going to be destroyed by some technologically-focused, overgrown child with Einstein hair because he wasn't strong enough to put up with a little pain. it hurts, gunny, suck it up, private, we all hurt And that made his pride rear up, puff out its chest, and roar in the back of his head.

But his body still wouldn't listen to him. There were rocks in his arms, in his legs, in his head, and someone had taken a blowtorch and set his core on fire. White-hot, all-encompassing, crawling along his skin. Static kept washing over his ears. Except. . . it sounded like whispering? Kind of like the servants at Nocturne's lair, the ones that looked at him with dead, sunken eyes and smiled around the scars in their lips. They hadn't had tongues. But they'd whispered at him. They had called him "the walker" like his name was some sort of title?

_Listen, follow, know, the master is this way_. . .

Walker opened his eyes and even though they kept watering, stars dancing, he could recognize where they were. That was the event horizon. That was the event horizon _near his lair_. How did Technus know where his lair was, again? How long had they been moving?! Technus – oh, yeah, that's what had been touching him this whole time – was wheezing a bit.

"I am not one to comment on physical appearance, warden, but you are the _heaviest _person I have ever seen. What are you feeding yourself?!"

It was high-pitched, whining, over-dramatic. And right in his ear. Walker tried to make a noise. Except his tongue was too thick. It wouldn't do what he wanted it to. There was a massive gob of spit in the back of his throat. Was he drooling? He thought he might be drooling. God Almighty but this was _awful_. His _hair _even hurt. Hair wasn't supposed to hurt. Why did he do this again?

_Oh, dear, little warden, do you not remember?_

And then he could see Pen and Danny smiling in the living room, playing with a racetrack that took an hour to clean up. And he could see Taylor flying circles around the house after getting his prosthetics, grinning so wide it took up his whole face, practically glowing with happiness. Kitty and Johnny, sitting on the front porch and talking and they were grinning at each other, those two idiots. Ember laughing at a stupid joke he'd made, all jewelry and too-much makeup. He could see it _all_.

His kids.

Pen.

His _family_ – that was why.

"Just a little further, warden. Geez, do you even have the Ghost Network out here? It doesn't look like it."

Technus was babbling. That meant he was nervous. Or excited. Sometimes Walker had trouble telling because he was so obnoxious. Except, this time he was kind of grateful for the egghead. There was no-telling how long it would've taken to get home (if he got home at all) if Technus hadn't come along. His head still kept rolling like a bladder on a stick, and he still couldn't really make noise other than weird groans, but he could see his lair-bounds getting closer.

"Alright, warden, if you can hear me, brace yourself. We are going to land."

Oh. Well, that was awful polite of him.

Then they landed. And Walker had thought that the pain couldn't have gotten any worse. That it was already maxed out. There had been, in his mind, nothing else that could top what he had gone through in the first moments of making the wards. The rush of fire over his skin, into his bones, burrowing deep into his core until there was nothing but white-hot _hurt_ and screaming it smells like burning flesh. As a Marine, as an officer, he should have _known better _than to think that.

Because he was absolutely friggin' _wrong_.

The moment his feet touched the ground, Walker's body lit up with a fresh wave of heat. It was like he'd stepped into a furnace. In August. At two in the afternoon. In _Hell_. Everything burned, from the tips of his hair to his toes and even his friggin' teeth. The pain was just. . . he couldn't even begin to describe it. Mostly because he was too busy collapsing and trying not to scream. Somewhere, deep down in the pits of Hell that somehow weren't as hot, Technus was talking and trying to get his attention.

Walker was too busy throwing up to really notice.

And then it just. . . stopped.

How, why, and what for, he didn't know, but every single bit of his body was grateful it was over, even if it left him half-stunned and sore. Being covered in raw glyph-tattoos and half-collapsed into a puddle of vomit wasn't exactly fun, either. But anything was better than the pain. Shaking, still trying to comprehend what in the actual Sam-_hell _just happened, Walker swallowed down another thick wad of spit and tried not to gag at the bitter taste left in his mouth. He was sweating. His fingers were dug to the last knuckle in the dirt.

But he wasn't incapacitated anymore, and that was what counted.

"What on Earth was _that_?!"

Oh, yeah – Technus was still here. Walker took a deep breath and managed to push himself onto his feet. He took a small victory in the fact that he could actually stand up without assistance this time. Technus hovered uncertainly a few feet away, and his expression was equal parts panic, confusion, and curiosity. Which he couldn't really blame the guy for. Technological wizard he may have been, but Technus was also a scientist. He thought this kind of stuff – wards and such – was fascinating. Didn't make him any less annoying, though.

"Nothin' much," Walker managed to rasp out. "Thank ya fer helpin' me, Technus. I was. . . kinda in a tight spot."

Eyebrows disappearing into his wild hair, the techno-ghost nodded. "That seems to be an understatement, warden. Tell me, did you realize that ward-glyphs would be this painful? Or did you run in without thinking? Because it seems to me like you ran in without thinking."

He had been helpful. He had been helpful and would _continue _to be helpful with the right persuasion. It would be a Really Bad Idea to punch his teeth down his throat. Regardless of how much he deserved it. Walker took a deep breath through his nose to try and keep his cool.

"Nocturne didn't explain how they worked. He just kinda did it." God Almighty, his throat was raw. "How the heck d'you know about how much wards hurt anyway?"

Technus tossed his head back and cackled. Loudly. "I am Technus! Master of Technology! Do you think that I would not take every precaution to protect my inventions and plans from those who would try to steal them? Why do you think it has been so long since you last managed to raid my lair, dear warden?!"

That. . . actually made since, come to think of it. They hadn't arrested Technus in nearly eight months, longest they'd ever gone since computers became such a big deal. Walker caught sight of a few faint glyphs, outlined in bronze, just under Tehcnus's sleeve. So _that _was how he kept away from the patrols. He must've had someone (or something) make him a ward to hide his lair from those who wanted to take his technology. Or at least hide his contraband when they were searching.

Sometimes, for all his monologuing and naivety, it was easy to forget how smart Technus actually was.

Walker grunted in acknowledgement and took a ginger step forward. Holy _crap_, he was sore. He hadn't felt like this since his first few weeks of bootcamp. But it didn't feel like he was on fire anymore so that was going in the right direction, at least. Technus suddenly fixed him with a serious expression.

"Those are some powerful wards you've been given," he started. "What could you possibly need them for?"

"I don't see how it's any of yer business," Walker snarled.

Technus crossed his arms over his chest. "It is my business because I found you delirious and half-Faded in the middle of nowhere covered in some of the strongest glyphs I have ever seen. That, and you are the guardian of my favorite little test-driver. So you will tell me why you need those wards or my services shall no longer be available to you!"

His patience was practically _nothing_ at this point, and Walker wasn't ashamed to admit that. "I will _bury you_, Technus! Don't you think fer a minute I won't!"

The little nerd had the audacity to shrug at him and smirk at the same dang time. "Fair enough. But I still will not make any communications devices or weapons for you. It would be a shame. Those short-range ecto-radios are quite useful, aren't they?"

He hated _everything_ and _everyone _and all he wanted to do was go inside, hug his kids, and sleep for the rest of the month.

Was that too much to ask for?

But there was this look that Technus got on his face, a smug, confident look that only appeared when he was absolutely determined to get his way, and Walker knew that the battle was lost. He'd seen that look before. Ten whole seconds before the scientist and Tay declared they were gonna put a _canon _in his _leg_. Walker had said no until he was blue in the face then. What happened?

Taylor now had a fully functioning canon leg. And an ion-laser in his arm.

Trying to ignore the throbbing ache in his limbs, Walker ground his teeth and rubbed at the bridge of his nose.

"_Fine_," he growled. "But it's a long story, an' 'm _tired_, so yer gonna have t' come in. And before ya come in, there's a couple of new rules ya have t'follow."

For once, Technus didn't seem ready to complain or put on a speech. "Of course. I am Master of Technology, but this is your home. What are these rules of which you speak?"

. . . he was gonna regret this. He could feel it in his bones. Still, Walker jerked his chin towards the front door and slowly started headed that way. Every step hurt like a mother, but he _refused_ to be carried into his own home like some invalid. It was degrading. And if Pen caught them, she'd never let it go. EVER.

Come to think of it, he was probably gonna catch a good earful anyway. Oh well.

"I got a new arrival 'bout a month, month an' a half ago," Walker started, trying not to wheeze. "Name's Danny. He's had it. . . rough, puttin' it lightly. Matter of fact, I was comin' t'find you 'fore I got side-tracked with all this ward business. Because he was abused so bad before dyin', his body can't regulate itself right. He like to have froze himself t' Fadin' yesterday after a panic attack. So no shoutin', no sudden moves, an' if Danny ain't comfortable with you, don't push him. Got it?"

It was hard to tell behind those thick black glasses he always wore, but Walker would've swore that Technus was blinking at him in surprise. His eyebrows had disappeared into that stupid hair again. They were almost to the porch before the scientist managed to say anything. Which was both welcome and a little suspicious because Technus was _never_ speechless.

"I will do my best to abide by your rules, warden," he said, grandiose as always, but much quieter than his usual screech.

All Walker could manage to say was, "Good. That's. . . that's good."

Without thinking, he put his hand on the doorknob, twisted it, and something

_snapped!_

deep inside his chest and he could feel everything, see everything, somehow knew that Johnny and Kitty were asleep beside Ember on the floor, knew that Danny was sleeping against Taylor and that Taylor was only dozing, knew that Penelope was in the kitchen and he could see and –

He was standing in the entry way blinking at nothing, Technus hovering to his left.

"Are you alright?" It was soft, almost timid, like the other man was scared of the answer.

. . . this was a whole lot of crazy that he hadn't known he was signing on for, and Walker didn't like it.

At all.

"Walker?" Penelope's voice drifted in from the kitchen. "You're back early. I thought you said it'd be closer to one."

She rounded the corner, twisting her hair into a messy bun on top of her head, and promptly froze. Walker fought his urge to wince away as black veins started creeping around Penelope's eyes, growing darker and angrier the longer she stared. Technus squawked a bit and hid, the coward. But, for once, the warden couldn't really blame him. Swallowing thickly, Walker reached back and scratched at his neck. Which was a mistake – he touched a raw glyph back there and, _good Lord_, it stung like hellfire.

"What. The _actual fuck_. Did you do?"

Somewhere, deep down in his mind, he'd known that Penelope could be scary if you pushed the right buttons. But Walker hadn't really thought about what would happen if she directed all that towards him. He swallowed hard around the sudden knot in his throat.

Behind him, Technus squeaked, "You did not tell me that Spectra would be here! This is entrapment of the highest order!"

"I can explain everythin'." It was a pathetic croak. Not because he was _scared_. That was stupid. His throat was just raw. He could never _really_ be scared of Pen.

A muscle in Penelope's jaw twitched. The veins spread further over her cheeks, dark and viscous. Her eyes were hard, but there was something just underneath that Walker couldn't quite make out, and it made his guts squirm a bit.

"That's good. Because you two idiots," she hissed, "are going to explain _everything_. In the kitchen. _Now._"

Her voice never rose above a vicious whisper, and for some reason, Walker just sort of wished she'd go ahead and yell at him. Then he remembered Danny, sleeping on the recliner against Taylor's shoulder, the credits to some movie rolling over the TV screen. Without another word, he pushed past Penelope and sat down at the kitchen table. Technus followed behind him like a kicked puppy, settling into a chair as far away from the irate shade as he could possibly get.

"For the record, I would like to state that I had no part in any of what happened to Walker," the electro-scientist declared, warbling like a nervous hen. "I just escorted him home. He did not tell me that you would be here or that you would be angry."

Penelope fixed a boiling glare on him, and Technus wilted into his seat. Jaw working, she crossed her arms over her chest – wait, was that his shirt? and his pants? – and focused on Walker again.

"Sit there. Don't move. I'll be right back."

Her words were short, clipped, and angry. Walker's gut twisted, and he watched her turn and stalk out of the kitchen in silence. His hands were still shaking. His skin still felt like he'd just gotten history's worst sunburn. And every muscle kept trying to tell him that he'd been beaten like a dog for three days straight, even though that hadn't actually happened. But, despite all that, knowing that he'd managed to make Penelope _this _upset was somehow worse.

It was a bad revelation to make with Technus sitting right behind him.

"Wow! I never would have expected to see Spectra this angry at you, warden. What is going on between you two?"

"First off, whatever goes on between me an' Pen ain't none of yer friggin' business," Walker shot back. "And second, I'd just keep yer mouth shut 'til I can get 'er calmed down. She's liable t'make you cry. Again."

"That was _ONE _time! And I had already had a very bad day!" Technus squawked.

Penelope came stalking back in not a second later, a fresh towel and a bottle of aloe in hand. "And you're about to have another very bad day if you don't shut the _fuck_ up, electro-dick." She scowled at Walker. "Turn around in the chair, dumbass, and start explaining."

Telling Pen to watch her language at this point, even though the black veins of death (as Johnny called them) had gone, was probably a very bad idea. So Walker did as he was told, wincing. Penelope muttered angrily to herself, yanking open a cabinet door to pull out a bowl with _way_ too much force. She practically punched the faucet on.

"Explain. _Now_."

Walker shifted to try and mask his discomfort. "Where d'ya want me t' start?"

The water shut off. Penelope walked out of his range of vision again, the now-full bowl clattering onto the table, and snapped, "Why don't you start with how the _fuck _you got the idea to go and get wards plastered all over your body?!"

. . . yep, she was mad. She was _very _mad. He didn't really know why she was this mad. But Walker wasn't about to make it worse. So he explained everything. Starting from the interview with Bertrand (which got a disgusted, angry sound from Technus), then to his visit to Nocturne (they turned to soft noises of fear), and he finished by explaining how the scientist had "escorted" him home. And if he left out the parts where he passed out, threw up, and collapsed from pain like he'd never felt before, than that wasn't anything to second-guess.

Throughout it all, Penelope didn't say a word. She listened, dabbing at his back with the towel she'd brought in. And even though she was _definitely_ still hacked-off, Walker was shocked at how gently she worked. It stung, sure, but it was nothing he couldn't handle. When he finally stopped, the kitchen was quiet. Too quiet. Technus kept twisting his fingers in on themselves, gnawing his lip between crooked teeth. Penelope hadn't said a word for the last five minutes.

Then. . .

"You are the bravest, _stupidest _man I have ever met, Jeremiah Walker." Her voice was low, quiet and shaking. "Do you know what he could've taken? What could have happened?! Jesus _fuck_, Walker, he could've made you one of his little eyeless puppets that are always floating around! Did you even _think_ about that?"

Whatever he'd been prepared for, _that_ hadn't been it, so he just sat there like a sack of dumb rocks trying to come up with an answer. Technus looked uncomfortable. _Really_ uncomfortable.

"Umm. . . I am not an expert in interpersonal communication," the scientist wheezed. "But this seems like it should be a private conversation, so I shall sit in the other room until I am needed again."

Then he practically sprinted into the living room. And Walker was left alone with Penelope, grasping at something – _anything_, really – to justify what he'd done. Except she was right, and God if that didn't chafe. Because, no, he hadn't thought about anything other than keeping her and Danny _safe_. That was all that had mattered, in the moment. So consequences hadn't really concerned him until she'd pointed out that Nocturne could have done anything in exchange.

He had been so focused on protecting them that he hadn't realized he could've _lost them_ at the same time.

"Fucking _shit_, Tex, say something!" Penelope's voice was thick.

Walker tried to summon up the gumption to explain himself. And the words. But all that managed to come out was, "I wasn't thinking."

A disgusted growl escaped Penelope and she spun him around, face twisted in a half-snarl that didn't quite match the genuine concern in her eyes. "No, you weren't! Why the _hell _would you do that?! These things could have killed you!"

She had another point. And the sick feeling in his guts only got worse when Walker realized how genuinely scared Penelope looked.

"It didn't really matter at the time, Pen," he explained quietly. "There wasn' a thing Nocturne could'a done t' me that was worse than the thought of Bertrand gettin' his hands on you or the kids."

Her hands were shaking. Penelope sat down heavily in the chair across from him, jaw working, gaze still tinged red. "And what the hell were we going to do if they'd killed you? Just sit here anxiously and hope for the best? Fucking. . . how could you not think about that?!"

"The risk was worth the reward," Walker muttered lowly. "These should be strong enough to keep all of you safe even if – and that's a _big _friggin' if – Bertrand manages to escape."

Penelope scoffed, rubbing at her eyes with one hand. "God. . . I get keeping the kids safe, okay? I get it. But why didn't you just. . .?"

Hot anger welled up in Walker's chest when he caught on to her line of thinking. "Why did' I what? Jus' kick ya out? Leave ya alone so he could just beat ya whenever he wanted? Lemme tell ya somethin', sugar. That ain't _never_ gonna happen. _Ever_."

When Penelope lifted her head up, she looked absolutely exhausted. Like she'd been fighting every second for the last thirty years. "Why not? Why do you care so much?"

The words finally came, and Walker's skin cooled a bit, the glyphs sinking deeper. He could feel them, whispering in the back of his head, but the sensation wasn't as weird as when Nocturne's servants had been talking. This was more comforting. Secure. And they'd already had this conversation once before. But, dangit, they were about to have it again because she still wasn't getting it!

"First, no decent person would _ever_ let you go back t' that asshole." Penelope gaped at him in shock, but he plowed forward anyway. "He's been abusin' you fer God knows how long an' this is where it stops. Second, I would never _ever_ do that to you or Danny. You're that boy's mama. He thinks ya hung the moon in the sky. Kickin' ya out wouldn't be fair t' either of ya. And third," Walker gulped to gather his courage, "you're kinda my friend. Yer a foul-mouthed pain in the _butt_, but yer still my friend. So you ain't goin' _nowhere_, Penelope Spectra, an' these were what I had t' pay fer that. Got it?"

Penelope just stared at him, wide-eyed, mouth open in shock. Walker almost chuckled. "Close yer mouth, darlin', you'll catch flies," he teased.

"Did. . . did you just _swear_?" she whispered. "Holy shit, did those things give you an aneurysm?! Are you broken?"

"Issat seriously what you got outta that whole speech?" Walker slumped, a bit disappointed. "'cause I don't wanna have t' explain _why_ you shouldn't have to get beat again."

It seemed like the only thing Penelope could do was blink at him. Her mouth worked like she was trying to find something to say. And deep down, Walker kinda felt proud that he'd been able to leave the Comeback Queen speechless for once. Then she _smiled_ at him, almost a full-out grin, and started to laugh. It bordered on hysterical, shoulders shaking, tears pouring out of the corners of her eyes, and _holy crap_ _he broke her_. All that time with Bertrand, and it was _him _who managed to break her.

He was about to start panicking when Penelope leaned forward and hugged him hard around the neck.

Walker froze. It didn't hurt, which kind of shocked him. Where Penelope touched him skin-to-skin, the glyphs actually cooled a little bit, even though it still stung and his muscles were sore. Slowly, kind of afraid he would end up scaring her off, he reached up to squeeze her gently around the waist. She kept laughing against his throat. And he thought she may have been crying a little but this was actually kind of nice? When was the last time he'd been hugged by someone other than his kids?

"If you _ever_ do something this stupid again, I'm going to feed you your own guts," Penelope wheezed. "Got it?"

It shocked a chuckle out of him. Walker leaned his cheek against the side of her head and hugged her harder. "Yes, ma'am. Only do stupid things with your permission."

"You dumb bastard. You big, dumb, _beautiful_ bastard."

"Watch yer mouth, Pen."

Penelope let him go and sat back wiping at her eyes, but the smile hadn't dropped from her face. "Whatever, cowboy. Turn around so I can put some aloe on your back. The base glyphs near your spine are raw."

Walker did as he was told, resuming his position from before, and tried not to groan as Penelope started dabbing aloe along his spine. The hug may not have hurt, but _that _stung like a mad hornet. Another large glob of aloe hit between his shoulder blades, and he sucked in air through his teeth.

"How the heck d'you know what these things mean, anyway?" Walker asked. "It just looks like a bunch a weird squiggles t' me."

He could practically _feel _Pen roll her eyes at him. "You didn't even look at them before you let Nocturne burn them into you?"

Walker shrugged. "I couldn' read 'em even if I had. What d'they mean?"

A finger traced around the edge of a raw spot on his shoulder blade. "Bertrand taught me about ward glyphs about twenty years ago. He wanted to know if we could use them in the living world. It's a little fuzzy, but I remember the basics. Each type of glyph corresponds to a portion of the body. Base glyphs go along the spine because they're the foundation of the ward, the backbone. Sealing glyphs are along the limbs because that's where you exert force and strength. The warning glyphs are on the throat to signal communication. It basically goes along those lines. The symbols are a little vague at this point, but they follow the same basic pattern."

As she spoke, Penelope kept smoothing the aloe along his back. His skin was already starting to cool, and Walker let his head drop onto the back of the chair. "Uh-huh. . . that's real nice."

She snorted. "Don't fall asleep, asshole, I can't carry you. And you need to put on a shirt." With a final sweep of her fingers, Penelope capped the aloe and sat back. "There – you're all done."

Groaning to himself, Walker stood up and tried to resist the urge to stretch his over-tired muscles. He glanced over at Penelope and smiled. Well, until she picked up the bowl of water and towel – they were both tinged green with ectoplasm. He winced.

"They aren't bleeding anymore, if that's what you're worried about." Penelope danced around him to dump it into the sink. "This was all dried around the glyphs. It's mostly inflamed skin now, like a sunburn. That's why I grabbed aloe."

Something suddenly occurred to Walker and he frowned. "Where the heck d'you even find aloe? It ain't like we get sunburns."

Penelope shot him a confused look over one shoulder, wringing out the stained towel. "Under the sink in your bathroom. Have you never had it there before?"

Mute, Walker shook his head. "No? Why the heck would I keep aloe around?"

"Because it's useful? And you never know when you're gonna take a plasma blast to the face?" She watched him for a minute, only to make a disgusted noise at the dumb look that was probably stuck to his mug. "You're useless, honestly! No wonder your lair's started making shit for me!"

He tried to cross his arms but. . .

"No, no, no, no, no!" Penelope rushed over and grabbed for his hand, yanking to keep his arms from touching his chest. "I don't know what kind of bullshit hoodoo Nocturne put in these, but I don't want you touching glyph to glyph until they're all healed. I've heard about some weird shit happening to people who accidentally let their wards morph."

Well _that _was gonna be a fun habit to break. Walker let his head fall back and groaned a bit. "I should'a thought this through better."

"No shit, Sherlock. Now, go upstairs and put on a shirt. And pants that don't smell like burnt hamburgers." Penelope smirked at him.

Snorting, Walker headed gingerly into the living room, praying to whoever would listen that he and Pen hadn't woken up the kids. . .

Except Technus was sitting and talking with Taylor, Danny watching him with rapt attention as he gestured and pointed to portions of the older boy's cybernetic arm. The scientist was explaining. . . something that Walker didn't understand about how the joints were put together, how the energy held it all in place. But Danny just looked enthralled, nodding every so often even though he was half-tucked into Tay's side. _Somehow_, the older kids were still passed out, snoring in the middle of their blanket fort like a bunch of boozers.

". . . and when Taylor pushes more energy from his core into the arm, it activates a special generator so he can build up and focus the energy into a laser. So it is a laser canon! I am quite a genius for thinking of it, I must say!" Technus proclaimed, crooked grin practically glowing.

Danny grinned, hair sticking up in tufts all over his head, and rasped, "It's a _space arm!_"

"Oh shit, he got to the kids."

It took everything in him not to choke on his own tongue at the absolute horror in Pen's voice. Walker settled for hiding a smile behind one hand. He leaned a little closer and whispered, "I'm gonna go through the ceilin'. Don' wanna scare 'em. 'll be down in a sec."

Penelope nodded. "Go ahead. I'll distract them for a bit."

Walker didn't waste time in case he got caught. Forcing his sore body to move, he shot up through the ceiling, passing through walls and other stuff he didn't care to think about until his feet touched the bedroom floor. They hadn't made the bed. His robe, the one Penelope had worn earlier, was tossed into a corner. There was makeup staining one of his pillowcases. But Walker smiled anyway because he could see Taylor's blanket folded neatly at the foot of the bed. And Danny's pj's were hanging on the edge of the hamper. And he could just barely make out Pen's perfume, flowery and light.

They were _safe_.

That was what mattered.

Walker groaned and winced his way through putting on the biggest shirt he owned, trying to adjust the neck so it would hide the glyphs creeping along his collarbone. It didn't fully. But it was the best he could do for now. Still forcing his muscles to move, he grabbed a pair of thick gray sweatpants from the drawer, ignoring the way his gut kept trying to seize up on him. It hurt like a sonuva gun. Eventually, though, he managed to get dressed and stumbled into the bathroom He stared at his reflection for a long moment. It stared back, exhausted and drawn, angry black lines and green-tinged skin peeking out when he moved.

A little curious, Walker unbuttoned his shirt and stared at the glyphs spiraling across his chest and down his abdomen. They weren't quite as thick or angry as the ones on his arms and back, a bit more like actual handwriting. Most scrolled across his pecs in straight lines, like a book he just couldn't seem to read, growing sloppier and bolder the further down they went. But there were five symbols right over his core that were different. They spiraled, looping and almost pretty, tinged red around the edges of whatever ink Nocturne had used to set them. Frowning, Walker traced the edge of one with his finger, a looping swirl that doubled on itself at the top and –

He was looking at Danny, all white hair and electro-green eyes, a smile that could light a summer sky and a giggle that could melt hearts. And he could smell no-tears shampoo, salt, little boy sweat, faint tinges of perfume. Could taste French toast and bacon and grilled cheese with tomato soup. And this was _Danny_, this was his _boy_, right down to the very bottom of his guts. Happy, sweet, scarred little Danny with the heart of gold and –

Walker gasped, jerking his hands away from the symbol. His hands gripped the sink so hard it nearly cracked. Scared, shocked, confused, he stared at his reflection a little more because _what the sam Hell was that_?!

It was like being plugged right into Danny, being able to see every part of his son that he loved, and that terrified him.

Was. . . was this how the wards really worked? They tapped into his core and focused on who he loved best? Then that meant. . .

Taking another shaky breath, Walker glanced at the other symbols swirling over his core, an infinite loop connecting a pair of interlocking hearts. Hands shaking, he hesitated for a moment before finally biting the bullet and touching it, the edges flaring gold as –

And there was Penelope, glaring up at him over the top of Danny's head, all green eyes and red-hair and an absolute _ton _of sass. And he could smell raspberry shampoo and jasmine perfume and whatever was in the makeup she caked on her face in the mornings. Could taste whiskey in coffee, pancakes covered in syrup, cold pizza. This was _Penelope_. Who slept in Danny's room to scare away nightmares, who had horrific bed-head, who swore like a stupid kid. Scared, scarred, disillusioned Pen who kept her heart hidden away from everyone but Danny and –

His arm dropped.

Walker stood there for a long minute. Looked at the exhausted, confused man staring back from the mirror for answers. They weren't there, but it gave him something to do while he collected himself. One by one, he touched the symbols wrapped tight around his core. One by one, he saw his kids. Johnny, who smelled like motor-oil and cigarettes and laughed like a thunderclap. Ember, who ran hotter than a furnace and couldn't be quiet if she tried and gave hugs that could crack someone's ribs. Taylor, who had nightmares that left him a wreck but faced the world around him with a smile and always tucked himself right into the corner of the bed and _never_ failed to say "I love you."

One by one, he saw his family.

Eventually, there was nothing left to see.

Still confused, Walker shuffled out of the bathroom and towards the stairs, buttoning his shirt as he went. There were voices drifting up. Technus was talking about something or other, a little too loud but under his usual shout. Ember laughed – oh, boy, she was awake – and then someone smacked her. Probably Kitty, judging by the lack of another loud _slap!_ Penelope was saying something, too, asking Technus questions about. . . oh, they were talking about the regulator.

Good – maybe now he wouldn't have to threaten the little electro-weasel.

Slowly, Walker started making his way downstairs. His collar itched. His entire body ached. And a little part of his soul faded away when he thought about having to clean up the blanket fort the kids had built, things strewn over the loveseat and part of the couch to anchor it all down.

Then Danny's head popped over the back of the recliner, hair sticking every direction. The little boy grinned, all gaped teeth and sunshine.

"Papa! You home?!"

Home – this was the first time Danny had referred to the house as "home" and it made every bit of pain, confusion, and general bull he'd dealt with that day worthwhile. Walker smiled, straightened his shoulders so he wouldn't look too sore.

"Yeah, punk, I am. You been havin' a good day?"

Danny nodded. "Uh-huh! J-Johnny made b'eakfast! Lot'sa gravy!"

Today, it seemed, was a good day. Even though his arms protested (loudly), Walker couldn't help but scoop the little boy up. "Well, that sounds just downright delicious!"

He rounded the recliner and made to sit on top of Taylor, who hadn't been paying a lick of attention. "Scoot over, brat, I'm tired."

Squawking like a wet hen, Taylor managed to wriggle out of the way just in time for Walker to sit down. "Papa, you gotta give me some warning before you do that! You're _heavy_!"

"You callin' me fat, boy?"

"No, I'm saying you've got, like, thirty million pounds of lead hidden somewhere in your clothes." Taylor could be so _dry _sometimes, completely expressionless as he said it.

Walker chuckled, ruffling Tay's hair as the older boy tucked into his side. Didn't mean he didn't have to hide a wince, though. He looked over at Pen, who was in the middle of negotiating details with Technus. She glanced at him for a split second. Then went back to what she was doing. Ember and Kitty were arguing to themselves about what movie they wanted to put in next. Johnny was rolling his eyes at the pair, but he could see a smile trying to peek through.

"Hey, Pops."

"Hey, kid."

Johnny lifted an eyebrow. "Rough morning?"

The knuckles on his right hand were still bruised, and he flexed them a little around Tay's waist. "You could say that."

It had been a _rough_ morning.

But. . .

"Hey, Tay, pop in _Lilo & Stitch _while you're over there!" Ember called. "Papa's got Danny on his lap. He _can't _get out of watching it now!"

Taylor grinned and hopped up, feet thumping on the hardwood as he rushed to do what she asked. On his lap, Danny was practically bouncing in place, playing with a frayed string on Walker's shirt. He could hear Penelope laughing, the brat.

"Alright, Papa, today's gonna be great!" Taylor wriggled his way back up onto the recliner. "Just pj's and movies – no work! Got it?"

Walker nodded and somehow managed to keep from grinning right back. "Got it."

As the opening credits started rolling, and Penelope somehow managed to shoo Technus out the front door, Walker couldn't help but think today was a good day, even with its awful start.

Penelope curled up on the couch, tucked right in the corner to his left. "Stop talking, boys, the movie's starting."

When the boys weren't paying attention – they didn't really have to worry about Em, Johnny, or Kitty because they never paid attention anyways – she mouthed, "You okay?"

He was sore. He was tired. And the weird thing that happened when he touched his glyphs still gave him the willies. But the kids were arguing. Hucking popcorn at each other. Watching a stupid movie about some little blue alien. And there wasn't a single frown in sight.

"I'm fine."

It was a good day after all.

~*O*~

Be Jazz Fenton.

Dream about your brother. His name is Danny. He is four years old. He is your bubby, with blue eyes like the sky and a smile that makes everyone happy. His hair is black, like Daddy's, and he's got freckles on his nose.

Dream about your brother.

Except it is dark and cold and it _smells_, like that time you found one of the kitties that had been run over on the street behind a dumpster. And you can't see anything except a big shiny table, with lots of latches and straps in the edge. There's something green on the floor. It's dried and flaky and it smells. There's something on the table. Something in the straps.

You don't want to see.

You don't. . .

You don't want to. . .

Except your feet don't listen and you walk forward. Bearbert isn't here and he is your friend but it's so cold you can see your breath, feet like ice cubes on the floor. Mommy's gonna be real mad. You're not allowed in the lab, not since The Accident.

Not since Danny left and that other little boy it's Danny it's Danny it's Danny, mommy, don't showed up.

There's a sound. It's wet like water in a bucket but _wrong_ because it sounds like someone trying to breathe. But they can't? Your tummy feels sick and your fingers are cold and everything is falling around you, so dark, so dark, so _not right_. And your feet won't listen to you still. They keep moving you don't wanna see and they just won't stop.

Stop.

Step up to the table. There's a stool. Pull it close to the edge and step up and keep your fingers on the edge even though it's so cold it burns and everything smells. Pull hard on that table. It digs into your fingers but that's okay. Mommy's fingers dig into your arms sometimes, now, and that hurts worse so you this isn't too bad.

No, please, stop.

Stand on the stool. Look on the table.

No, no, no you don't want to.

Look at the table, Jazz.

No no no no no no no no no please no don't want to no this isn't right no –

Look at him, Jazz.

You're shaking and you can't _breathe_, everything too fast and the world is spinning and the smell is horrible, you think you're going to throw up, and no no no no no because there's . . . .

On the table. There's someone on the table. There's someone with their arms and legs strapped on the table. You're six, you're small, but you know this isn't right. The green stuff keeps dripping. Big fat drops that crash when they fall. But wait, that's not right? It's dry, right? You saw it. Before. You saw it.

Look at him, Jazz.

Keep looking, keep watching, and then it

moves

and you're looking at a sad little boy with white hair and he doesn't have _eyes_, just big pits in his head, green green green like that smelly stuff that drips on the floor and he doesn't say anything, just _stares _at you, and he looks so lonely and so scared and like everyone in the whole wide world has forgotten him and he's too skinny. His clothes are ripped. You can see his ribs and his skin is very white, and you can see green stuff running underneath it and he's got freckles across his nose except those are green too and –

NO no no no no no no no no

The little boy stares and stares and stares and you want to scream and you want to throw up except you _can't_ and he just

"Jazz? Jazz, _kiska_, you need to wake up."

keeps looking at you and his eyes aren't there, just big pits, but they're staring, how is he doing that? Your hands are shaking. It's dark. It's cold. Someone is screaming. Is it you? You can't tell anymore. Because the little boy opens his mouth and he has a gap in his teeth like Danny does and

wrong wrong wrong bad don't like it stop it stop stop stop stop don't wanna see this anymore no

"_Malyshka_, it's just me. Wake up, dear one, c'mon. It's Uncle Vlad."

he whispers, "Help me help me help me jAzZy" and the world goes sideways and. . .

Be Jazz Fenton.

Sit up and scream in a bed that isn't yours and cry because no no no no no that was a nightmare. It was a nightmare but it wasn't and everything is wrong, now. Wrong, wrong, wrong. There are hands on your arms. Big hands. They're holding you. Oh, no, you didn't mean it, Mommy, honest. Please, don't, Mommy. Please, please, please, you'll be good. You promise.

You _promise_.

Then someone is hugging you. And it's not Mommy. This is a man. He's got a big chest and his skin is really hot, almost too hot, and his pjs feel weird against your face. But you're so _cold_ and he smells good, like the cologne Daddy used to wear except better, and you let him hug you because you really, really need one right now. Cry when a hand runs through your hair. Cry harder when Uncle Vlad starts talking in Russian.

You woke him up.

He was so nice last night, when you had another nightmare, and now you're being bad and _woke him up_.

Keep saying "I'm sorry" until Uncle Vlad shushes you. He squeezes a bit tighter, but it doesn't hurt. Not like when Daddy used to hug too hard or when Mommy would grab you by the arm. Uncle Vlad rocks you like you're a baby and then you remember this bed _is _your bed but not. And you're not going back to Mommy and Daddy you don't wanna go back soon.

"Oh, _kiska_, it's alright. Shush, now, I've got you. Everything's going to be alright, now."

He sounds a little scared. You scared him.

Then Uncle Vlad scoops you up and so you've gotta hold on tight, arms around his neck, and make sure that he doesn't drop you on accident. He doesn't. You think Uncle Vlad is actually really strong. Don't look at him. He can't get mad if you don't look at him.

That doesn't make any sense but you don't look anyway.

Uncle Vlad carries you down the hall. It's long. And dark. Your heart is thumping too hard in your chest. _Thu-thump, thu-thump, thu-thump!_ like a little rabbit. But it's not so scary now. He opens a door. Goes inside. It's very big in here, with a fireplace and bookshelves. And there's a huge bed, like ones you see in movies about kings and princesses. This must be Uncle Vlad's room.

He walks to another room and turns on a light. It's a bathroom.

Be Jazz Fenton.

Stare at your toes when Uncle Vlad wets a washcloth. Don't look him in the eyes. That's very important. He can't see if you're lying if you don't look him in the eyes. Scrunch up your face a little when he drags the cloth over it. It's cool and it feels good. Your face isn't so sticky anymore.

"There. That was quite the nightmare, little one." Uncle Vlad keeps wiping at your cheeks but he doesn't sound _angry_, so that's good. "You scared me half to death."

Uncle Vlad kind of laughs like it's a joke. But your insides twist into knots and your fingers are white because they're holding the counter too hard. Sniffle. Gnaw on your lip.

Whisper, "I'm sorry" again.

Your throat hurts. Were you screaming? That's not good – you shouldn't use your outside voice inside.

Uncle Vlad throws the washcloth in the sink and picks you up again. The light goes off. Tuck your head into his neck and keep quiet. That's also very important. You shouldn't talk if you can help it. Let Uncle Vlad set you down and snuggle under the covers. Roll up against his side when he sits down. Try not to cry.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Shake your head. No – you can't. It's a secret.

"Alright, then. Why don't we read another story, hmm? From our special book?"

Wait. Think. Then sit up, rub your eyes, and nod. The stories are _magic_. Uncle Vlad told you so. They dance in the air and tell you things in pretty colors and soft words. He's a good storyteller. And the way he wraps his arm around your shoulders makes you feel safe.

Be Jazz Fenton.

Listen and watch as Uncle Vlad tells more stories from his magic book.

Go to sleep when he finishes.

Forget the table forget the boy forget everything because you promised.

You can't.

~*O*~

The image on his looking glass fades.

Nocturne frowns.

**A/N: Holy shit, so that went from zero to a hundred real fuckin' fast. **

**I'm gonna keep this short since this chapter is gargantuan, but thanks once again for sticking with me so long! I hope this chapter is to your liking because things are going to be picking up and LOOKING up from this point forward! Leave me a comment to tell me what you think. Even if it is to tell me I'm a goddamn psychopath. **

**Thanks once again, and I'll see you guys in the next one!**


	21. Chapter 21

Be Jazz Fenton.

Watch as the world moves in slow motion and super-speed.

It is the end of January.

Uncle Vlad's house is like a castle. It's big and dark and there are so many _rooms _to explore. You take Bearbert and go on lots of adventures. There is a library with dark shelves and a TV room and more bedrooms than you know what to do with, even a few rooms with lots of glass bottles and footballs in cases. Don't touch anything because this isn't your stuff. Mommy always says that touching other people's things without permission is rude. The walls are green and gold. Uncle Vlad likes watching football lots. His favorite team is the Green Bay Packers. You used to watch football with Daddy sometimes. But now you don't like it as much. Too loud. Too much yelling.

There is one room you're not allowed in and it's got a heavy metal door and it makes your tummy squeeze too tight. Uncle Vlad says it's the basement. Says he's got tools down there that are dangerous. You aren't ever allowed into the basement. That's okay.

Basements scream and then they go quiet.

You have nightmares, too, in this big castle-house.

Lots of them, every night, about boys with no eyes and tables that drip green and sometimes you even wake up puking because the dreams even have a smell, dirty and rotten like bad meat. Don't tell Uncle Vlad what they're about. That's very important. He is so nice to you, gives you a big room with toys and books, a princess bed that almost makes you forget how scary it is to sleep. If you tell him the secret, he'll hate you. If you tell him the secret, everything will fall apart just like it did before. Big bruises and handprints and your tummy trying to eat itself.

But the weird part is Uncle Vlad is never _mad _at you. Not like Mommy used to when you'd wake up screaming or Daddy when you made a mess on accident, their breath smelling like gross brown grown-up drinks. Uncle Vlad always comes in right away, never yells, never hits. Never blames you or calls you stupid or to stop acting like a spoiled brat. He just picks you up and gives you big hugs, lets you cry until you can't. Sometimes, he lets you get a drink of water. Other times, he wipes your face off with a washcloth.

He always asks if you want to talk about it. When you say no, he nods. Then you read stories from your magic book that's also a secret.

There are so many secrets and your chest aches because you don't know what to do with them.

Mr. Turner comes to visit a week after you start living with Uncle Vlad. He's nice, you think, with a smile that crinkles in the corners of his eyes. He asks how you like it here. Asks what kinds of toys and books you have. When he sees your room, he laughs in a way that makes you think he's impressed, and he gives Uncle Vlad a weird look that you don't understand. But grown-ups are weird anyway. Towards the end of the visit, Mr. Turner talks to Uncle Vlad for a little while. They have Very Serious looks on their faces. You think Uncle Vlad is asking about your nightmares.

Try not to feel sick in your tummy and don't think about the color green.

Be Jazz Fenton.

It is February. Go back to school.

School is important. And when you come back into the classroom, give Dash the biggest hug you can because you _missed him_. He hugs you back just as tight until all the air leaves your lungs. It doesn't hurt anymore. There aren't any bruises under your shirt. The other kids look at you like you've got a disease, and Paulina asks "What'd you do to make your Mommy and Daddy hate you? Huh? Freak?" It hurts. But you've gotten pretty good at ignoring hurt, right?

Help me help me help me help me jAzZY hElP ME

There's lots of work that you missed. That's okay. You like doing homework. And the other kids call you weird for it, but they don't Mommy wouldn't hit you when you were doing homework understand. Dash sits with you and helps too. He's good at showing you how numbers fit together even when they swim like fish. When you're finished, you help him with his reading. The letters make pictures, and pictures make stories, and you help Dash see the pictures instead of the letters that melt together like ice-cream.

You don't ride the bus anymore, and now Uncle Vlad always feeds you breakfast, but Dash still gives you his Honey Bun. Every day. Lunch is quiet at the same table. He holds your hand tight. It never hurts. Not like it used to.

This is normal. This you can handle.

Uncle Vlad is a very busy man. He works a lot, always talking on his phone and wearing suits that look uncomfortable. Mr. Smith, who works for Uncle Vlad, takes you to the office every day after school. He doesn't talk a lot but that's okay. You don't like talking a whole lot either. But the office is filled with people who talk loud and fast and wear shoes that shine. Men with slick hair and ladies with very red lips. It smells like paper and sweat and something else you can't quite name. Uncle Vlad's office is quieter, though, so you sit in the corner and do make-up work. When you finish, read books.

Sometimes, when Uncle Vlad does not have to talk on the phone, he lets you sit on his lap and work on papers with him. You ask him questions about what he does. He always answers, and he never makes you feel like a dumb baby. Sometimes, Ms. Jensen the Secretary comes in. Sometimes it's other men with shiny shoes and suits and mean eyes. Uncle Vlad never makes you move.

"Why do you have a child on your lap, Mr. Masters?" one man asks. His eyes make you feel small, sharp and cold and too much like Mommy's, and his smile isn't nice at all.

"This is my newest assistant, Jazz. She will be observing how we conduct business here at Dalv Corp. I trust this isn't a problem?" Uncle Vlad says it like he knows the answer already.

No one asks why you're there after that.

It is Valentine's Day and the class has a party and you're so excited. Uncle Vlad helps you make a box for your valentines the night before. It's pretty, blue and purple instead of pink and red you don't red or green anymore and there are little bluebirds on the side. You're so proud of it. He kisses the top of your head and calls you "_kiska_" and that means kitten. Russian is easier to learn than math.

It's Valentine's Day and the class has a party and you're not excited anymore. There are cupcakes and candy and your valentines are Harry Potter this year, with M&M's to go with them. You hand them out during the party. No one else but Dash gives you a Valentine. He squeezes your hand, kisses you on the cheek when the teachers aren't looking. Paulina laughs and tugs on your braid. It's got blue and purple ribbons in it.

That's okay. That's okay, you tell yourself. You don't need valentines.

At the end of the day, Mr. Smith comes to pick you up in the limo. He's holding the biggest bunch of pink roses you've ever seen. He smiles, bends down to tap you on the nose. The other kids are staring. Paulina looks like she's trying to catch flies in her mouth. You're holding a pretty blue box with one valentine and only a little candy, backpack too heavy with homework. Your hands are shaking.

"Your Uncle Vlad says that every princess deserves roses on Valentine's Day," Mr. Smith says, voice quiet, and he's _smiling_.

That night, you hug Uncle Vlad so hard around the waist it makes your arms hurt. He always waits to hug you back, just a little bit, like he's scared of doing something wrong. That's okay. You understand that. But when he _does _hug you, it's the best. Warm and strong and his heart _thu-thumps _in his chest so strong you can feel it in his tummy.

Mr. Turner comes back to visit. You talk again. Keep your secrets. That's very important, keeping these secrets. Even though it makes you feel so _sad_, so bad, so angry.

The nightmares don't go away. Uncle Vlad still isn't angry.

Be Jazz Fenton.

It is March and it rains every day.

Dash comes to your new house on the weekends sometimes. You play in the backyard and splash in mud puddles and get _filthy_. It's so much fun, being muddy Danny would really love this so you don't notice how dirty you are until Mr. Smith calls you inside. He laughs a little because Dash looks like he's been dipped in chocolate, hair sticking up on his head. Your braids are all messy and your sneakers squish when you step.

So Mr. Smith makes you and Dash take off your shoes. He washes your legs off with the water hose. It's cold. So _cold_. But a good kind of cold. You squeal and Dash giggle-yells. Then you both go inside and take baths, and Dash's daddy can see the future because he packed extra clothes. Uncle Vlad laughs when he hears. It's a nice sound. He doesn't laugh a whole lot.

School is school and kids are mean. Ignore them. It doesn't hurt you're not supposed to lie so just do your work. Math is getting a little easier. Numbers are like wet noodles instead of slithery snakes, now. Dash says that his letters are more like a bad watercolor, now, too. You don't have anymore make-up work. It's sad.

There's a lot less homework to focus on.

Mr. Turner comes back and then you start talking to Mr. Spelka again. He's an older man, older than Uncle Vlad. He's got lots of hair that's gray except for a few pieces, and those are red like yours. His eyes are dark. They crinkle at the corners 'cause he smiles so much. He's a therapist. Talking to him is supposed to help the nightmares. So you go every Thursday after school. Sometimes, when he doesn't have to work, Uncle Vlad sits in and talks with you.

Outside is cold, but it's getting warmer. Sometimes, after talking with Mr. Spelka, you think your chest is getting warmer. Then you remember Danny isn't here, remember green drip-drip-dripping and big pits in a boy's head, remember your secrets. You're cold again.

The nightmares stay. But they don't happen as often. Sometimes, you only have them three times in a week.

Are you forgetting? No but it doesn't hurt so bad You think so, maybe.

Uncle Vlad has finished his magic storybook. Your favorite story is about the Great King, who was strong and brave and loved his queen very much. He loved her so much that he had a ring made for her, filled with magic so she would always be safe. His crown was made of fire and they were very happy. But then, one day, an evil sorcerer made the queen sick. The ring couldn't keep her safe, so she faded away, and the king was very sad. He was so sad that he became angry, and he wore his queen's ring to make him strong when he fought the evil sorcerer. The king didn't win. He's sleeping, now, locked away in a coffin.

It's a sad story, you think.

But it's pretty, and you sometimes wonder if someone would ever love you as much as the king loves his queen.

Uncle Vlad doesn't work as much, now. He even picks you up from school some days. Those days, he takes you to get ice cream. It always gets in his beard and it gives you the giggles. Those days, he'll ask you about Mommy, lots of questions about what she's like now. He never asks about Daddy. Only Mommy. Shrug and try not to answer until he makes you.

You don't like thinking about Mommy anymore. It makes your tummy hurt. Because you miss her but you're scared of her.

Little girls aren't supposed to be scared of their mommy.

Ice cream makes it easier, though, and Uncle Vlad always says he's sorry he made you upset. When that happens, he carries you back to the car. You go back home. And that's what you call it now. Home. You don't know when that happened. But it's okay. Really. Those nights, you sit together with lots of blankies and watch movies in the TV room. Uncle Vlad always makes big bowls of kettle corn, and he lets you snuggle up under his arm.

He's always so _warm_.

But his eyes still scare you sometimes, and the way his shadow moves isn't quite right. You feel bad. He can't help it.

Those nights, you usually don't have nightmares.

Be Jazz Fenton.

It is April and you get sick.

Try not to let Uncle Vlad see. It's hard. Because your nose is stuffy and everything aches, like you've been running laps for hours, and you're cold then you're hot and all you want to do is _cry_. You're supposed to go visit Dr. Spelka today. Dash wanted to show you his new Star Wars coloring book. His favorite is Anakin, even though he sometimes has scary eyes and there's something about the way he moves that makes your fingers itch. But you don't want to get dressed and sitting down to let Uncle Vlad braid your hair _hurts_. Smile anyway. That's what little girls are supposed to do, right? Smile? Pretend it's alright?

It doesn't work.

Uncle Vlad's fingers don't feel hot when they touch your head. He frowns. Sits you on the counter and puts the thermometer on your tongue. When it beeps, he looks at it, then picks you up.

"No school for you today, _malyshka_," he says, and it's all in Russian.

That's another thing you haven't noticed. You can understand more things, now, and the different words don't feel so heavy on your tongue. Sniffle. Bury your face in his neck. You feel so _yucky_. It's awful. You hate being sick.

Sit quiet and let Uncle Vlad put you back in your pjs. Try to listen when he talks on the phone. You don't like missing school, even though the other kids are mean and Paulina still smears mud in your hair at recess some days. But this is different, right? You're not being bad, just got sick, and Uncle Vlad isn't like Mommy or Daddy. He doesn't yell. He doesn't hit. He doesn't say it should've been _you_ mean things that make you cry.

Uncle Vlad picks up Bearbert, sits you in his lap, and works from his office at home, instead. Nap against his chest because that's the only thing you want to do. He's big and too hot but he's kind of safe and you feel so _awful_. Wake up shivering. Don't say anything because Uncle Vlad is talking on the phone to some Very Important People. His business is very big. Sometimes, you worry he works too much 'cause he'll come home late and then go to his basement and then tuck you in with bags under his eyes. The nightmares make him cry sometimes, too.

Shh – he doesn't know that you know that.

Take your medicine even though it's nasty you're a good girl good girls don't spit medicine don't hit me _please_ and play with Bearbert's ears. Your head doesn't hurt so bad after a while. Sit quiet on Uncle Vlad's lap anyway. When different pictures come up on his computer, ask questions. Be polite. That's very important. Uncle Vlad is like Mommy and he says that manners are a person's greatest weapon. They can be a sword _and _a shield, except they don't leave marks you can see.

Sometimes, Uncle Vlad sees things a little different than most people.

Listen when he explains what they mean. The words are big, and sometimes you have to ask him to explain those, too, but he doesn't seem upset. He never talks to you like you're small or stupid. Uncle Vlad is the only grown-up who's done that except maybe Mr. Spelka. Even Mr. Turner, who is also very nice, sometimes treats you like a baby. Uncle Vlad _never _does.

"How can you learn to use things if you do not ask questions, little flower?" he says, and then he taps the end of your nose.

It tickles, and you giggle. When his work is done, Uncle Vlad carries you to the bathroom and lets you take a bath. Wash even though your arms ache and try not to shiver 'cause he doesn't let you use very hot water. Get out. Dry off. Put on new pjs. Go into the TV room and sit on the couch until Uncle Vlad comes back.

He's got soup.

It's no fun, being sick. But you've got soup your tummy isn't hungry and you can watch tv Mommy isn't yelling and Daddy doesn't hit and Uncle Vlad lets you pick. You pick cartoons. It's hard to be sad when _Jimmy Neutron_ is having fun with his friends. When the medicine works, and you feel a little better, sit on a high cushion. Practice braiding on Uncle Vlad's hair. He's got lots of it, long and soft, and it's a very pretty color. Tell him that. It makes him laugh.

It's April, and springtime is here, and you realize that you don't actually _miss _Mommy and Daddy.

Tell this to Dr. Spelka and Uncle Vlad. Sit and shake and feel very confused. Aren't little girls supposed to miss their Mommy and Daddy? Are you bad? Are you broken? You feel like you are. Everything is _amazing_ and you have so many things that you didn't have before, but there's a big hole in your chest that's cold and Danny _still isn't here_. Why? Nothing makes _sense _anymore.

Cry very hard when you say all this because you're not supposed to. Mommy said you're not allowed to talk about it. Not allowed to tell. You haven't told them everything. Not really. But you just. . .

You can't. . .

Cry and cry and then cry some more when Uncle Vlad picks you up. He hugs you hard. Rocks you back and forth and back again. Listen as he talks in Russian. Understand every word.

"It's alright, little one. I've got you. It's okay to be confused. You're wonderful, Jazz, a sweet little girl and you're going to be okay. Please don't cry, princess, I'll make it all better."

Hold tight to his shirt. Try not to cry. Cry harder anyway.

But, when you're done crying, you feel a little better. Even though you think Uncle Vlad looks very scared and confused and like he doesn't know what to do.

Don't even try to wait for the nightmares at bedtime. Go straight to Uncle Vlad's room. Get under the covers in his very big bed and huddle up under his arm. He's sleepy, already kind of snoring, and there's a dark bruise under one of his eyes. You think that he must've been working hard in his basement earlier. There are other bruises on his arms, too. Bite your lip. Hug him tight.

Whisper "I love you" because he's asleep and can't hear you.

That way, he can't laugh or yell or be mad. You're scared. You love him lots, but you're scared, because you don't want him to be like Mommy or Daddy.

Because you love them too and they hurt you anyways.

Be Jazz Fenton.

It is May. You have lived with Uncle Vlad for almost five whole months now. You know lots of things about him that you didn't know before.

You know that he drinks lots of coffee every day but only when it's so hot it burns other people. Know that he is strong enough to carry you on his shoulders without holding on and that he lets you do this at his office building because it makes people walk into things and you both giggle. You know he likes hamburgers best when they're still pink and that his teeth are sharp and his smile is sharper. You know that his shadow doesn't move quite right, that his eyes are too bright, but that he always has time to read you a bedtime story.

Know that Uncle Vlad loves football and speaks lots of languages and is the smartest person you know. That he plays in the mud with you some days and let's you ask questions and talks to you like a grown-up. That he lets you practice braiding on his hair because Dash's isn't long enough, even though he keeps trying to get his Daddy to let him grow it out.

Know that Uncle Vlad goes into his basement and comes out bruised, but that he's always got a smile for you. That he panics when you cry because he doesn't know what to do so he just hugs you so tight it makes it hard to breathe. That he stays up too late some nights and lets you sleep in his bed because that helps keep you from having nightmares. Sometimes, you think he has nightmares too.

Be Jazz Fenton.

Wake up on Danny's birthday with an awful feeling in your tummy. Go to breakfast. Don't eat anything. Try not to cry when Uncle Vlad asks what's wrong.

Say, "It's Danny's birthday. I miss him," and try to think about whether it was in English or Russian.

Watch as Uncle Vlad frowns around his very hot coffee. His hair isn't up in a ponytail yet. Today is a work-from-home day, you think. "I'm sorry, _malyshka_. The police are still searching for him, though, so we'll be sure to think happy thoughts for him on his birthday."

It slips out before you can stop it. You're not sure you _want _to stop it.

"They aren't gonna find him."

Uncle Vlad looks at you, and his eyes are too bright, and you think they might be red for a second. "Why ever would you think that, Jazz?"

Your hands are shaking but you can't cry. You aren't sure that there are any left. "I don't think it, Uncle Vlad. I know it."

His eyes are _too bright_. "And how do you know it, darling?"

Be Jazz Fenton.

Look at your Uncle Vlad with his too-bright eyes and too-dark shadow. Shake down to your toes. Love him and be scared. Answer anyway.

"Because the little ghost had Bubby's eyes."

The coffee mug shatters.

~*O*~

"Mama!" Danny whined. "I don' wanna!"

Penelope tried not to sigh. For about the _thirtieth_ time that morning. "Danny, baby, I know you don't like practicing. But you _have _to learn. You don't want to get sick again, do you?"

Sick again. . . yeah, freezing an entire room _and _yourself to the bone constituted being sick for her kid. Thankfully, they hadn't had any more incidents since early January, and she thought nearly five months ice-free was an absolute _miracle_, all things considered.

Danny crossed his arms over his chest and pouted, sitting squarely on his bottom in the middle of the yard. His tiny jeans were stained with mud and grass, and he'd managed to spill his juice all down his front earlier. His little bare toes were absolutely _filthy _because, despite all her coaxing, he'd decided that shoes just weren't his thing today. A frown creased his forehead.

The little shit had _no right_ to be this cute.

"No," Danny muttered. "I don' wanna get sick. But I don' wanna practice neither."

Penelope tilted her head a bit and sat down next to him. "Why don't you want to practice today? You _love _flying."

Still pouting, Danny leaned into her side, silently asking her to play with his hair. "I jus' don' wanna. Can we go inside now?"

"No, baby, we still have to practice."

"_Mamaaaaa!_"

If someone had told her even a month ago that she'd be _this _happy to deal with a whiny four-year-old, Penelope would have punched them in the fucking mouth. It was bad enough putting up with Ember and Johnny on a regular basis. Why the absolute _hell_ would she want to deal with more? But, counter-intuitive though it seemed, Penelope took the childish petulance that Danny was showing as a massive indicator of progress.

In February, he'd told Walker that he didn't like strawberries and nearly had a panic attack because he thought he'd get punished.

By March, he could still barely force himself to ask Taylor to play astronaut instead of pirates.

And in April, he told her no _once_ and then panicked so badly his regulator nearly shorted on him.

So this was a big step forward. Annoying as hell, sure, but still good in the long run. Danny had been in a foul mood since he'd woken up that morning. Why, she didn't know. But she was _so _ready for Walker to come back and deal with it before something regrettable came out of her mouth.

Penelope gathered the few scraps of patience she had left and hauled Danny into her lap. "Alright, kid, tell me what's wrong. You've been cranky all day."

Danny shrugged. "'m not cranky," he muttered, sullen. "I jus' don' wanna practice."

"Ah-ah!" she chided. "That's not an answer. What's the rule?"

A tiny finger traced the stitching along her collar. "I gotta tell the truth, even if I don' wanna, 'cause that's how I feel better," he recited quietly.

"That's right, baby. Now, why don't you tell Mama what's going on?"

Even after nearly five months, she still couldn't get over the giddy rush that came with the title. Penelope ran her fingers through Danny's hair, smirking a bit at how much healthier it was. He'd even been brave enough to let her cut it a couple of weeks ago. His bangs didn't fall in his face anymore, and his eye-sockets looked _almost _normal. If it wasn't for the way they swirled every now and again, electric-blue on acid-green, they could almost be mistaken for solid-colored eyes.

Still pouting, Danny let his head drop to her collarbone with a dull _thud_. "Papa said we'd practice today. Then he leaved."

Well, that certainly explained everything. Penelope kissed him on the forehead, one hand still scratching at his scalp, and Danny relaxed into her. The little regulator implanted near his stomach whirred quietly.

"Danny, I know you wanted to practice with Papa today," she soothed, "but you know why he had to leave, right?"

"I know," he groused. "Papa's gotta catch da bad guys."

Penelope chuckled a bit at just how unimpressed he sounded. "That's right. Papa catches bad guys so we can be safe. It's very important. So, sometimes, he leaves even when he doesn't want to."

"Didn't want to" was the understatement of the fucking _century_. Walker had grumbled and stomped his way through getting ready the entire time that morning, dark bags under his eyes. It was a miracle he hadn't woken Danny up. Although, she probably hadn't helped by laughing at him the whole time. Grumpy ass cowboy. . .

Still, the explanation seemed to mollify Danny. His frown wasn't quite so deep, and he worried his lower lip between his teeth. Tiny fingers still toyed with her shirt, and Penelope tugged at one strap of his overalls teasingly.

"Sorry 'm grumpy, Mama," Danny whispered.

"You're allowed to be grumpy, baby." Penelope kissed the end of his nose and smiled when he giggled at her. "Just tell Mama why so we can figure out how to make it better, okay? Now, why don't we practice flying? Then we can go inside and get ready for family dinner."

Danny suddenly lit up, all gapped teeth and freckles. "Emmy an' Tay 're comin' home?!"

It was _almost_ enough to make her jealous, but Danny was absolutely smitten with Ember, the little shit. She'd taken to coming around at least once or twice a week, sitting in the living room and playing whatever Danny wanted. Even the Cyborg Wonder came with her sometimes, and their visits had given her enough time to head back to her own lair and grab a few more things. She could understand his obsession with Ember, to a degree. The girl was a fucking _princess_ and made Penelope want to throw things on a good day, but she was always paying attention to what he was feeling and that guitar worked fucking wonders for relaxing him.

What Penelope _didn't _understand was his obsession with Skulker. The man was gruff and crass and smelled like fried circuits and charcoal half the time. Not to mention how rough he was, how rude he could be. But none of that phased Danny.

Come to think of it, it was probably the fire mohawk – he'd asked for that right before she'd cut his hair.

"Yes, they are," Penelope answered. "I think Johnny and Kitty are coming tonight, too. But you have to practice before they get here. Ready?"

"Yeah!" Danny cheered.

He bounced up, brow furrowed in concentration and tongue peeking out from between his lips. It had taken nearly a full month to convince Danny that he wasn't going to be punished for showing his powers. It'd taken a month and a half to get him to turn invisible on purpose. For a minute. But as he'd gotten more used to the idea of having "superpowers," Danny improved by leaps and bounds. Almost to the point where she was concerned by it.

Flying, though, was proving to be more difficult.

Penelope grinned behind her hand, floating cross-legged a few feet over his head. "Alright, baby, lets try again. See if you can float up to me."

Huffing through his nose, Danny scrunched his nose up and focused on trying to get to her. He was always so _determined_ when he decided to do something. As she watched, his hair started floating up, his feet rising just the tiniest bit off the grass. His tongue was peeking through his lips.

Then she laughed, and his concentration was broken.

Danny thumped back onto the grass, arms crossed over his chest, and frowned up at her. "_Mama!_ You can't laugh! 's not funny!"

Penelope tried to get ahold of her giggles. "Sorry, sweetie. I'm not laughing at you, I promise!"

His frown didn't move an inch. "You are too."

"I promise I won't laugh anymore, sweetheart. Cross my core. Try again – remember to think about pushing up and towards me."

This was Danny's biggest hurdle with flying. He couldn't wrap his head around pushing up with his mind, not his legs. All ghost powers were linked exclusively to mental control, kind of like extended telekinesis. Thinking about being invisible or being intangible came easily to Danny simply because those were things that kept him _safe_. If he dreamed about no one being able to touch him, he made it that way. Flying, though, was a bit different. Penelope remembered how difficult it was for her to get. She couldn't imagine how hard it would've been coupled with the level of trauma Danny had experienced.

Expression still thunderous, Danny stood back up. She could see the _moment_ he decided he was going to tackle her. It was written all over his tiny face. Bracing herself, Penelope watched him flex his legs and _push_. His tiny body hurtled towards her, obviously faster than he'd intended, and she only just managed to catch him. For a second, Danny froze, wide-eyed and shocked as she grinned at him.

Then. . . "Mama, I did it!"

Penelope laughed and hugged him tight. "You did! Good job, baby! Do you think you can stay up here?"

His smile could've lit up a solar system. Danny wriggled a bit in her arms, nodding so hard he looked like a bobble-head. "Yeah! Yeah! Mama, leggo! I can _do it_!"

Very carefully, Penelope loosened her hold on his body. Danny wobbled a bit in the air, still grinning, then started floating in quick circles around her. Which opened up a whole new level of anxiety, holy shit. Why had she chosen to sit so high in the air again?!

Okay – realistically, they were only like seven or eight feet off the ground. Maybe – it was probably closer to five now that she thought about it. But Danny was so _breakable_. What if he fell? What if he broke his regulator? It'd taken almost three weeks to convince him that Technus implanting it wouldn't hurt, that they'd be with him the whole time and, no, there wouldn't be any yelling or hitting. Walker ended up having to cover his eyes as she talked so he wouldn't panic when the local went in. Fixing the thing or reinstalling it would be a goddamn _nightmare_. Holy fuck, she shouldn't have tried to teach him to fly, what the hell. . .?

"Mama, look! 'm _flying!_"

Danny hovered in front of her, and it looked like he'd never stop smiling. Penelope felt her shoulders relax a bit. _This _was why they had to teach him to fly. Because, for a boy so nervous, something that made him act like a normal child was precious.

"I see!" Penelope cooed. She flipped onto her stomach, kicking her legs in the air. "Be careful, though. I don't want you to fall."

He moved close enough to kiss her on the nose, tiny hands framing her face. "Ok, Mama!"

She couldn't help it. Grinning, Penelope shot forward and scooped him up. Danny squealed as they sped around in circles. Little fingers twisting in the fabric of her tee-shirt, he dissolved into a fit of giggles, freckles glowing in his pale cheeks. Little bolts of electric-blue swirled in his eye-sockets. They were almost comforting.

It was _so good_ to watch him smile like this.

"Mama, I can do it! Lemme try!" he squealed.

They went like that for another twenty minutes. Danny hovered through the air slowly, stumbling every now and again when his anxiety reared its head. But Penelope (somehow) kept her patience. She let him learn, remaining just below him to catch his stumbles. By the end, he was able to keep steady. Not fast, not in a particular direction for any amount of time.

But it was something.

At the end, Danny was panting with exertion, cheeks flushed and hair sweaty. Penelope scooped him up again, hugging him tight to her chest before touching down. The ground always hummed now, like there were live wires running just under the surface. It was. . . she didn't quite know how to describe the sensation. It'd taken some getting used to. But it wasn't unpleasant, exactly. Just different. Wards affected each person under their protection differently. Danny always described them as a "big hug" and Johnny always shrugged and said that they felt like a permanent breeze. Apparently, she interpreted them as electricity.

Penelope shook herself back to reality and bounced her way through the front door. "Alright, baby, bath time."

"Okay, Mama. Can I play rockets?"

She'd never met a four-year-old boy so willing to take a bath before. Then again, she'd also never met a boy who'd been _tortured_ to death before, either. Penelope glanced at the clock – nearly five thirty. Walker would be back any minute. Dinner was at six thirty because early meals were important for building Danny's metabolism. Did they have time to let him play with toys? Probably not.

"Sure, sweetheart, but only after I wash your hair," Penelope bargained. "Alright?"

"Yes, Mama."

. . . she'd gone soft and couldn't bring herself to be mad about it.

It was a steady routine by now. She sat Danny on the floor and let him pick out two bath toys while she pulled out his clothes for supper. When she was done, it was into the bathroom and a quick rinse because, if she didn't, the bathtub was caked with mud in ten seconds. Then she plugged the tub, let it fill, and set to work on that hair while Danny played. His hair was _gorgeous_ but it was always filthy. Because that was how little boys worked. Thank _fuck_ Technus made his regulator pretty much everything-proof.

Just thinking about trying to keep water or (ghost) dirt away from it gave her nausea.

As she worked lather into Danny's hair, careful not to snag her fingers on any tangled curls, she heard the front door. The electricity under her feet spiked then settled. Penelope smirked.

"Papa's home, buddy," she declared.

Eyelids still shut tight, hands clenched around his favorite rockets, Danny grinned. "Yay!"

Penelope shook her head and rolled her eyes, glancing over her shoulder at the sound of heavy feet clomping up the staircase. "Don't wiggle, Danny, I'm almost done. Then we'll rinse and get dried off, 'kay?" She finished working the lather into the back of his scalp and grabbed a nearby cup. "Alright, tilt your head back."

Ever her good listener, Danny tilted his head back and held still. Penelope hummed quietly as she rinsed the shampoo from his hair, careful to avoid getting too much in his ears or on his face. Behind her, the footsteps got louder and then she heard the tell-tale sound of someone leaning against the doorframe.

"Was it as bad as you thought it was going to be?" she teased. "Did you almost die again?"

She could practically feel Walker roll his eyes and grimace. "Worse – I had to run PT drills with rookies after dealin' with Bullet's nonsense. _And_ do paperwork."

Ah, paperwork! The cowboy's one true weakness.

Penelope snorted and finished rinsing Danny's hair out, glancing at Walker over her shoulder. "Aww, poor baby. You're so abused."

"Dang right I am."

"Papa! I flied with Mama! A-all by m'self!"

Walker took another couple of steps into the bathroom, lifting Danny into the crook of one arm when she finally got him wrapped in a towel – a towel with a hood, obviously, they weren't heathens. He looked exhausted. The bags under his eyes were stark, and Penelope felt a pang of worry shoot through her. But he was smiling, more relaxed. He'd even already stripped down to his under shirt, ward-glyphs stark against his pale skin.

"Ya did?! Didja go fast?!"

Danny shook his head. "Nuh-uh! I, uh, I fell 'cause Mama laugheded at me an' I got cranky an' then I jumped _real _hard like "_fwoosh!_" an' I was _flyin'_ Papa! Then. . .then we, uh, did circles, an' Mama only had t' catch me fwee times!"

He held up four fingers.

The grin on Walker's face was dangerous. Because it was _hot_ and she _hated_ herself.

"Woah! That's awesome, bud! High-five!" He held up one hand for the little boy to slap, lumbering out of the room before Penelope could do something embarrassing.

Like drool.

Annoyed with herself, she focused on cleaning up the mess left behind, drying off Danny's forgotten rockets maybe _too_ enthusiastically. She could kind of catch bits and pieces of the ongoing conversation as she finished mopping up the wet floor. Nothing substantial. Just. . . a dad talking with his kid.

_God_, her afterlife was weird.

The front door opened again with another rush of static through her feet, and Penelope grinned as she heard a pair of mis-matched feet thundering up the staircase.

"Don't run, brat," she called without looking up from the counter. "You'll fall and break something."

Taylor rounded the corner into the bathroom a second later, a shit-eating grin wide across his face as he barreled into her. There was dirt smudged over his nose. Penelope huffed. But she hugged him back anyway, obnoxious little monkey.

"Hi Pen!" he wheezed. "Do I got dirt on my face? Skulker and I were playing chase and he smacked me into a rock."

Rolling her eyes, Penelope used a wet washcloth from earlier and scrubbed his cheeks down. "I swear to God, you make your own dirt sometimes, kid. There – now you're clean."

"Thanks. Where's Danny?" he asked, rapid-fire, bouncing on his toes.

Taylor seemed to have a permanent grin during the day, and sometimes his energy was _exhausting_ to keep up with. But that stupid grin was also infectious, damn him, and Penelope couldn't help but smile back. She tried to fix his hair with her fingers for all of two seconds before deeming it a lost cause.

"He's with your dad in the bedroom. Don't get too carried away playing. Dinner's in forty-five minutes and I _do not _want a repeat of last week, understand?" she warned.

Nodding, he gave her one more squeeze around the waist before he half-sprinted around the corner again. A second later, she could hear him and Danny chattering excitedly with one another, Walker rumbling something quietly to the pair. She finished throwing the last of the towels in the hamper, humming to herself, and stepped back into the hall.

Walker leaned against the bannister railing, scrubbing one hand through his hair. He offered her a crooked grin, the one that made his cheek dimple, and Penelope felt her gut clench. He had _no fucking right_ to be that cute, damn him. And it just got _worse _the longer she stayed here.

Because she actually kind of _liked_ the son of a bitch now.

"Those two 're like a housefire," he joked. "We're gonna have a heckuva time when Danny really starts gettin' his feet under 'im."

Penelope snorted. "We have a hell of time _now_, Tex, what are you talking about? Now hurry up and put a shirt on – we've still got to make dinner before your other demon children show up."

Lifting one eyebrow, Walker's grin widened. "What? You don' like the tattoos anymore?"

That was the thing – she fucking _did_. The symbols traced all over Walker's arms and torso, crawling across his clavicle and up his throat, were some of the most intricate she'd ever seen. Nocturne did some beautiful work. And they were _fascinating_. The first month after he'd gotten them (when she finally convinced herself she wasn't going to strangle him) they'd gone over them in detail, trying to figure out anchors and trigger-points. She hadn't gotten far because they were written in a language she'd never seen before.

But they were also hot in like a bad boy kind of way? And it wasn't fair. So she made him cover them up because they were _distracting _dammit.

"Are you _flirting _with me, cowboy?" Penelope flipped the game on its head and poked his breastbone with one finger. "Because you suck at it. Go do as you're told. I'll get everything started."

He smelled like woodsmoke and leather for some reason, and Penelope laughed under her breath as he called after her. "Don't ya dare set my kitchen on fire!"

"No promises!"

Honestly, it wasn't an unreasonable request because she sucked at cooking. But getting the oven pre-heated and boiling water wasn't _that _difficult. So Penelope pulled her hair back up into ponytail – it was getting long – and set to work. She even remembered to salt the water so suck it, Tex, because she'd learned something. It was Italian night, too, so this was pretty simple.

Walker came thumping in, black long-sleeved shirt half-way unbuttoned, about the time she started chopping up tomatoes. Glancing at him, she could still see the bruises under his eyes. His hands were steady, though, grabbing at different ingredients to start working on the sauce.

"Did you sleep at all last night?" Penelope questioned. "You look like hell."

The big lug just shrugged his shoulders, a half-smile on his face. "Not really. Nocturne's been crackin' down this week fer some reason. Just gotta stick through it, I guess."

Anger spiked through her. Penelope's shoulders tightened, fingers just barely missing the knife when she sliced down on a tomato a bit too hard. _This _was the price Walker had paid. Nightmares for protection. Nocturne was the master of dreams. So when he decided that he wished to see a horror show, he just. . . made one of his own.

Right in the mind of some dumbass like Walker.

"You hit that cuttin' board much harder an' it'll break in half, sugar." Walker jabbed. "C'mon – it really ain't that bad. I don' even remember 'em half the time."

"Which means you _do _remember them the other half," Penelope shot back, "and you still won't fucking tell me about them. Sleep deprivation is different for ghosts, Walker. You _know _that. This can't keep going."

Walker sighed, big shoulders slumping, and he sidled a little closer so that their arms touched. "I can't rock the boat, Pen. Danny's jus' startin' t' come outta his shell. Tay's been doin' better than I ever seen. _They're _the ones we gotta focus on. Not me."

Jaw clenched, she turned to look at him. "Yeah, and if you go batshit because you aren't getting enough sleep and _won't let me help_, they're going to be right back at square one. We've been over this a thousand times."

The look on his face was resigned and. . . almost lonely. He slid the parsley he'd been dicing up into the bowl with her sliced tomatoes. But Walker didn't look her in the eye. It'd been like this for almost a month. The nightmares and the bruises and the reassurances. Penelope hated admitting it, but Walker had been a good friend. He was a good dad. And he wouldn't let her help because of some macho "I've got to do this" complex deep in his aggressively male psyche and that was fucking _irritating_.

"Jeremiah. . ." she started.

"We'll talk about it after supper, how's that?" Walker suggested, voice low. "When the boys are asleep. I don' want 'em hearin' anything."

It was the closest thing to a yes she'd gotten since the nightmares had started. She'd take it.

Penelope nodded, turning back to the boiling pasta and stirring. "Fine. But you're not weaseling your way out of this one, Tex. I mean it."

Walker chuckled and pressed a sudden kiss to the top of her head that made her freeze in shock. "Sure, hon."

There were feet coming down the stairs. Heavy, thundering, headed right for the front door. Penelope shook herself out of her stupor long enough to order, "_Do not _go outside, boys! Dinner will be ready soon and I don't want you getting dirty again. Play in the living room."

Twin groans answered, followed by Danny's dejected, "Yes, Mama."

Beside her, Walker laughed. "Who'da thought you'd be the disciplinarian?"

"Shut up. I am not."

She could still feel where he'd kissed the top of her head. It buzzed with the same electricity that hummed through her feet. But, Penelope mused, she couldn't really focus on that right now.

"Hey, Papa, do you think we could invite Technus to the next family dinner? I ran out of ammo for my leg canon today."

. . . there were other things to worry about.

**A/N: **

**I have hurt the baby. I have saved the other baby. But I hurt the Jazzy-baby, and there is no excuse. For this, I must apologize. **

**But anyway! I'm going to keep this author's note short and just say that I hope you all enjoyed the chapter (even though it's a bit of a time-skip) and I look forward to seeing your thoughts on it! Thanks so much for sticking with this for so long. **

**See ya in the next one!**


	22. Chapter 22

The months passed far more quickly than Vlad had truly expected. Or, in actuality, wanted.

It was a steep learning curve. He would be the first to admit that – although, his audience would have to die after the confession was made. Not that Jasmine was an _unruly_ child. Far from it, in fact. She was polite and intelligent, almost frighteningly eager to please, and could hold a conversation with far more aplomb than many adults he'd come across. It was a fact he'd been quite eager to impress upon his more annoying business associates, particularly by having Jasmine sit on his lap during meetings following school

No. . . the learning curve came into play regarding the nightmares. And the flinching. And the rare but absolutely _terrifying_ shutdowns, where the beautiful little girl would sit and stare into nothing for minutes – no, hours – on end.

They reminded him of the early days. Those long, eternal hours spent in isolation wards where physician after physician ran tests on his person. Strapped to a bed. No friends Maddie and Jack had forgotten him and no family Mother would never be back. Nothing but four walls and sterile beds and the smell of his own blood in his nose.

Ectoplasm smelled like honey, actually – it made him lose his taste for it.

So Vlad did what he did best. He learned, took the information acquired, and adapted. With a few. . . not quite minor realizations along the way.

Most of this time was spent learning the right words, the right motions and phrases. Distinguishing what brought out that shy smile from behind its clouds or what put Jasmine into a complete breakdown. She was quite advanced for her age, always asking questions and trying to figure out the world around her. After reading the ancient ghost stories, though he'd probably read "The King and His Queen" twenty times in the first week, they'd progressed to more advanced works. Jasmine, it turned out, was particularly drawn to fantasy. Smith had chastised him for reading _The Hobbit_ as a bedtime story to a six-year-old; however, Jasmine seemed enthralled, regardless.

The scent of alcohol always made her shrink away from him, though. Raised voices made her flinch. When he dared ask what prompted a question, Jasmine would wither, like a flower in a desert. It was a difficult field to navigate. One moment, they would be happily discussing the outcome of a Packers' game (though he wasn't entirely sure Jasmine actually enjoyed watching football). The next would find him holding a near-comatose child, speaking softly to bring her back from whatever Hell she'd dropped down into.

He'd make Jack's death painful. It was a promise.

Mr. Turner had recommended one Dr. Spelka to help aid the transition. A psychologist with nearly forty years of experience, who specialized in childhood trauma and PTSD. Vlad didn't trust the man God he hated doctors but there was something oddly familiar about him. Something in the way his head tilted, the shape of his eyes, the way his greying hair tinted red in the right lighting. It itched. But Vlad was not able to focus on that.

Not when the nightmares kept him (and Jasmine) awake at night. Week after week, each night blurring into the next until it was nothing but a blur of raw eyes and shaking hands. He didn't blame Jasmine. There wasn't a bone in his body that really _could_. Not when she looked up at him with those eyes of hers, big and violet and scared Maddie never had those eyes as she pleaded "just one more night, Uncle Vlad, I promise, I'm sorry" until the words swirled in a watercolor. He didn't think that Jasmine had really slept more than three nights in a row without a nightmare.

And if it wasn't her, it was him sitting upright and screaming.

The Behemoth proved more challenging than expected. It was a hellish beast. Honestly, it reminded him of some Lovecraftian horror, always shifting form, mammoth in proportion and vicious in temper. He'd spent the better part of April trying to figure out a way to circumnavigate the cursed thing, to find the treasure it guarded so selfishly. Sleepless nights where he did nothing but formulate algorithms and run simulations in between soothing Jasmine back to sleep. It was a tricky thing, balancing the two. But he _managed _because this was what he did best.

He learned. He adapted. He overcame.

Still, there was something in the back of Vlad's mind that niggled at him. A tinge of worry, of anxiety, that spread through him until it became an all-consuming terror. What if. . . what if Jasmine found out? What if she thought him a monster? What if that sweet little girl, who looked up at him with stars in her eyes and cuddled into his chest when she was sick, who was learning to speak Russian so quickly it made his head spin. . . what if she found out his secret? After all, many of their joint sessions with Dr. Spelka the ones where he refused to fidget and stared straight ahead and blocked out every memory of white ceilings and the stench of antiseptic and needlesscalpelsanesthetic involved the discussion of the Fenton's ghost obsession. Some of what she'd told them was downright _disturbing_.

And though every fiber of his being was screaming that there was no way Madeleine would do such a thing, that the queen he'd been playing this endless game of chess so desperately to conquer was no monster, each puzzle-piece began slotting into place. Madeleine had always had a tenuous grasp on morals. When they were children, he'd once found a bird with a broken wing. Maddie had manipulated the appendage harshly, eyes bright as she watched the damaged bones move under the feathers, completely oblivious to the poor thing screaming.

It had been an incident he'd forgotten until now. . . or, rather, blocked out.

Everything in his life was a game of smoke and mirrors, and something in Vlad's chest cracked at the thought of Jasmine being victim to it all.

She was such a _sweet _child, his little _kiska_.

Vladimir Masters considered himself a hell of a chess player, but not even he could've anticipated being so thoroughly wrapped around the girl's tiny pinky finger.

And that was how he found himself. Brooding over the existence of a single, six-year-old girl as he downed liquid jet-fuel and ignored how _good_ her favorite breakfast smelled. French Toast with cinnamon and syrup. His stomach was growling at the thought. But he didn't need sugar – facing the Behemoth loaded down with carbohydrates was a bad idea. A jittery mind was unfocused, reckless, something he couldn't afford.

Then Jasmine came stumbling into the kitchen, hair a tangled mess and bruises stark around her eyes. Vlad thought, just for a moment, that perhaps she'd fallen ill again. Dr. Spelka had said it wasn't uncommon for some traumatic stress responses to end in consecutive illness. But. . . something in his gut told him that wasn't right. The bruises were dark from restless sleep, it seemed, and her eyes were red-rimmed. But they were also wet and exhausted and miserable. She'd been crying.

That simply wouldn't do.

Breakfast was generally a light-hearted affair. Vlad enjoyed sitting and reading the paper or sifting through research while Jasmine ate, mostly because the little girl was always asking questions about what the day would bring. Is Mr. Hashimoto coming to talk about the merger again, Uncle Vlad? What kind of things do the people at your company make, Uncle Vlad? Do you think that we'll ever have flying cars like in cartoons, Uncle Vlad? Are you coming to pick me up after school, Uncle Vlad, because you were up really late last night.

But this morning? It was entirely too quiet. Jasmine sat quietly. Not locked in her own mind, not in the midst of a nerve-seizing panic. Simply contemplative and sad, obviously trying not to cry but afraid to say anything. She sat and fiddled with her breakfast, legs dangling listless from the stool she'd perched on. The French Toast was reduced to mush and shoved around her plate. Not a bite was taken. He watched for a long while, patient. Because the one thing he'd learned after all these many weeks? After all the panic attacks and horrific dreams and sleepless nights?

Quiet patience made Jasmine open like a flower.

"It's Danny's birthday," she finally confessed, murmured in accented, childish Russian. "I miss him," followed in English.

His heart seized. The police had kept him informed on search efforts, and he'd seen the toll her brother's loss had taken. There were pictures of the two of them tucked away in a file-folder for a rainy day, their gap-toothed smiles infectious. Happy in a way he'd only been able to witness on rare occasions. The frames were cracked. Glass fractured.

It mirrored the look in Jasmine's eyes.

Vlad took another sip of his coffee and relished the burn as it slid down his throat. His physiology had morphed since the accident. Temperature no longer seemed to bother him, particularly heat. It soothed him, this kind of burn, this sensation. A stray piece of silver hair fell into his eyes, but he resisted the urge to fidget and push it away.

"I'm sorry, _malyshka_," and the words tasted stale, weightless, meaningless. "The police are searching for him, though, so we'll be sure to think happy thoughts for him on his birthday."

That was another trick of his mother's. They were destitute when he was younger; however, Vlad did not remember his childhood as being particularly sad. Because even in those moments when they had next to nothing, he could still remember his mother turning to him with a smile, saying that they should think happy thoughts. Happy thoughts, she had said, give even the worst situation hope.

And to think, he'd forgotten the sentiment until now.

But there was just. . . _something_ about Jasmine's expression that soured in his stomach. Made his chest seize uncomfortably. He'd seen that look before. It stared out from the mirror on particularly rough mornings. Haunted, angry, resigned. All the things that have been scarred into the heart of a thirty-year-old man. All wounds seeping from a tiny, tender six-year-old heart.

Then. . . .

"They aren't gonna find him."

She said it with such certainty, such resignation. As though she'd known the answer for years but had resigned herself to the fact it would never come to light. Jasmine looked at him steadily. Her eyes were wet, red-rimmed and tinged with fear. But there was something dampening it, something dead, something cold. It made his throat squeeze in agony.

"Why ever would you think that, Jazz?"

Vlad felt himself speaking, but the heat in his chest had reached a fever-pitch, an ache building deep in the pit of his stomach. Something wasn't right. He'd known this for a long while now. Ever since February, when his little goddaughter woke in the night shrieking, begging for her mother to stop. That she was sorry. That she'd be good. But Maddie would never do that, right, Vlad? Not your lovely queen, your Madeleine with her bright eyes.

The certainty didn't fade. Not in the slightest. But there were faint tremors running along Jasmine's arms, fingers shaking horribly around her fork. The fear sharpened; however, it was still muted. Deadened. As though he was looking at his girl through a pane of leaded glass. Jasmine was such a sweet child. At one point, she must've worn her heart on her sleeve. But now it was hidden away, only coming out in select moments, like a sunflower turning its face to the sun. Vlad found, for the first time in forever, that he was beginning to lose control of his powers in the face of emotions.

"I don't think it, Uncle Vlad," she whispered. "I know it."

And there it was. The fear. The uncertainty that came rushing along her face anytime the discussion of either Jack or Maddie was resumed. At first, Vlad had wanted to believe it was _only_ Jack. Jack Fenton, who had taken his youth and his love and his dreams and crushed them beneath a fat foot. Jack Fenton, who plagued his daughter's dreams and had relegated himself monster under the bed. Who bruised her arms and scarred her mind. Except, it wasn't Jack that Jasmine was so afraid of.

It was _Maddie_.

Her mother. His love. Maddie, who told Jasmine she was stupid. Dearest Madeleine, who told Jasmine she was worthless. Maddie Cat, who browbeat and belittled and physically assaulted this precocious little girl until a quiet, bruised shadow of a child remained. He didn't want to believe it. He _couldn't _believe it. But he was a scientist. Vlad Masters knew the value of knowledge, that if you knew something, you could use it. Twist it to your advantage.

Vlad took a breath to steady himself, attempting to relax his white-knuckle grip around his coffee mug. Except his hands wouldn't cooperate. The porcelain was groaning, micro-fractures against his palms. It was scalding. His skin should've been blistering. Boiling. Bubbling into welts and sloughing off against the material. Except all it did was itch and burn and the whine in his head grew louder, more insistent. Break them burn them make them bleed make them suffer they've taken so much now take something _back _how dare they how dare they HOWDARETHEY

"And how do you know that, darling?"

His voice was far more stable than his mind, and Vlad had to force himself not to shake. Trembling like a child was inexcusable. Jasmine was frightened. He could see it in her face, in the way her fork clattered onto the plate of uneaten French Toast. But her eyes were glassy, far away and dead. It was a terrible expression for such a precious girl. She looked at him. . .

But Vlad wasn't entirely sure she was _seeing _him.

"Because the little ghost had Bubby's eyes."

The mug in his hand shattered.

Jasmine flinched, a scream ripping its way from her throat, and nearly busted her head on the marble tile in an effort to escape him. Vlad regretted his moment of temper immediately. Ignoring how his flesh was slowly sealing itself, he rushed to soothe the little girl. She was hiccupping around fat tears, trembling head to foot as she fought back sobs. Dr. Spelka said that she had a dreadful problem with anxiety, that she was convinced the slightest mistake would spell disaster. But Vlad hadn't thought it would be quite this severe. She flinched away from him, curled into a ball on the cold floor as though he would strike out.

Jasmine was _afraid of him_ and that made him want to vomit.

"Hush, _kiska_, you're alright," Vlad soothed, and he scooped his girl into a bear-hug. "I just lost my grip on the mug, that's all. You've done nothing wrong. Everything will be just fine."

Jasmine buried her face into the crook of his neck and _sobbed_. "I'm sorry, Uncle Vlad! Please don't send me back! I don't wanna go!"

"Shush, dear one. No one's going anywhere." Vlad could feel his core throbbing angrily, hot with ectoplasm just beneath his breastbone. "You will always be safe with me. Hush, my darling girl."

She was shaking terribly, trembling head to foot. The force of her sobs rattled through his bones. But Vlad held tight. He'd lost many things in his life. His parents, his dearest love, his youth. All things precious spent and wrung dry until his bones were dust.

But Jasmine?

Jasmine was going _nowhere_.

"Smith!" And perhaps it was more a bark than was needed, but really, who noticed? "Smith, I need you to call the school. Jazz won't be attending today."

His butler, ever-present and ever-listening, rounded the corner a moment later. "Sir? Is she alright?"

There was genuine concern in the dear man's expression. A rarity – Smith was a man of many talents, and empathy had never really been one of them. Loyal, dedicated, and efficient to a fault though he was, human connections tended to elude him. But Jasmine – quiet, sweet, studious Jasmine – managed to worm her way into his good-graces in that gentle way she had.

Vlad knew his expression was likely unpleasant. But he could _feel _the anger crawling under his skin, fire ants in his veins, whispering injecting venom into his veins until everything was heat and anger. Because _how dare they_ damage this child? How _**dare**__ they?!_

"No, it's not alright. However, we will not be requiring your assistance further today," Vlad answered, cordial as he could manage with a sobbing girl wrapped about his torso. "After you contact the school, you are free to return to your home."

Home, technically, was the first guesthouse just adjacent to the manor. However, Vlad saw no reason to leave it empty for the majority of the time, and Smith was his right-hand man. After all, it wasn't as though Vlad Masters the billionaire received many guests. As it was, though, privacy was required for such a delicate matter as his daugh- . . . goddaughter's secrets and stress. They needed the manor to themselves for a while.

Smith nodded, short and sharp. "Would you also like me to contact your assistant, Mr. Masters?"

"If you would, please, Mr. Smith. Then take the day for yourself. I will be in contact should we require anything further."

Another nod and Smith was gone, leaving one final, lingering look over his shoulder. It was too knowing, too cold. But Vlad couldn't focus on that for the moment. There were other things that required his full attention.

Jasmine began hiccupping against his throat, still trying not to choke on her sobs. Her little hands were fisted in the back of his dressing gown, holding too hard. The fabric was delicate, expensive. It would tear if much more force was used. But that didn't matter. What mattered was Jasmine would make herself sick at this rate. Vlad forced himself to remain calm. Or, at least, calm on the outside. His mind raced regardless, calculating possibilities and trying to come up with _something _to calm her.

He reached one conclusion that was. . .unfavorable but seemed prudent.

Vlad was, not for the first time, grateful for the physical acuity that came with his unique physiology. Jasmine weighed little more than a doll, even after returning to a typical, healthy weight for her frame, and it allowed him to walk smoothly towards his bedroom. She clung to him like a baby monkey, all limbs. A surge of affection rushed through him, despite the precarious situation.

He'd thought bringing a child into his life would be another chess move. A pawn to manipulate the field, to tip the odds. Instead, he'd found that Jasmine was more akin to flipping the board on its head. And then shooting him in the kneecaps. Though, this was _considerably_ less painful than being shot in the kneecaps.

Physically, anyway. . .

The great, heaving sobs that had wracked Jasmine's body had faded into quiet sniffles. However, tension lined every inch of her tiny frame. She was stiff as a board, arms trembling with the force it took to keep hold of his neck. Vlad gently ran a hand along her spine, wincing a bit as the knobs of each vertebrae pushed into his palm. Her physician had assured him she'd returned to a healthy weight, that sometimes children with slight frames simply _felt _underweight. It didn't alleviate the anger pulsing just beneath his breastbone.

Vlad slunk through the doorway. The room was dim, and though it was May, a fire cracked and sputtered in the hearth. Gently, he untangled Jasmine from his person and placed her down on an overstuffed armchair. Her eyes were swollen and puffy, glimmering violet and half-broken in the dim. Venom hissed in his veins, metallic on his tongue.

"Uncle Vlad, 'm sorry, _please _don't be mad," Jasmine croaked, voice raw. "I promise I won't tell again. Please don't send me back. I'll be good. I _promise_."

She was about to work herself up again. Fresh tears threatened to spill, her thin chest heaving, and the tiny hands that had clung so tightly to his dressing gown were wringing in her lap. Vlad knelt to Jasmine's level. He smiled though it felt more akin to a grimace. His skin felt over-tight, stretched along his bones.

"Shush, _malyshka_," he soothed. "You've nothing to be afraid of. I'm not angry. Now, I'm going to make you a bubbly drink and get Bearbert. Then, we shall sit here and be quiet for a while. Perhaps we'll read a story or two, hmm?"

Jasmine sniffled, and her gaze sharpened with just the barest hint of distrust. She was perceptive, his girl. Vlad felt his smile grow more genuine despite kill them kill them find them kill them take them she's _yours_ the heat that continued to coil in his chest. He ran a hand over her head. Gently, always gently. He was so strong, and she was so _fragile_.

"You are not in trouble, Jazz," he whispered. "I swear it. Now, would you like grape or orange soda?"

The distrust faded as quickly as it appeared, and Jasmine shot him a wobbling smile. "Grape, please."

It was a rare treat to have soda in his home. Much as he hated to admit _spoiling _his darling girl, she was rather. . . indulged in certain aspects. However, sweets were usually a hard line. She could have a sweeter breakfast, on occasion, but sugary drinks did not appear outside special occasions. Jasmine, bless her, never complained. Though, he was certain she'd grown up thus far consuming _gallons_ of the stuff.

If only this occasion was a happier one.

Vlad set about tucking a soft blanket about her shoulders and pressed a kiss to the top of Jasmine's head. Then he set off back down the hall, but not before making sure there were another set of eyes to watch his goddaughter. The manor was dark. Too dark for May. Too dark for day. Too dark for any living thing, really. It rather matched his mood. He was quick to grab the careworn stuffed bear that Jasmine adored so, easily disentangling it from the twisted duvet on her bed.

However, as he set it on the counter to grab Jasmine's drink, the button eyes seemed to judge him.

Vlad ignored them. Mathematics were required in order to get this right, especially since Jasmine was such a tiny thing. The thought of injuring her, even accidentally, made his stomach knot in discomfort. He poured a small amount of grape soda into Jasmine's favorite lidded cup, dark blue with little crescent moons dotted across it. Then, mentally double-checking his calculations, he grabbed a dropper bottle from the locked overhead cabinet and added the correct dosage for Jasmine's weight and age.

Diazepam solution worked _wonders _if used properly.

There was something akin to guilt crawling up his spine, apprehension needling at the back of his head. Did he really need to _drug _Jasmine? Would she notice? Would she blame him? Perhaps he should simply have a talk with her?

Then he pictured the little girl he'd acquired in January. The frail wisp of a child with sunken, shadowed eyes and a stare that haunted. And he pictured tears as they fell over her cheeks, gapped teeth that no longer showed in grins. Nightmares that woke them both in the wee-hours. Gasping pleas for mercy that seemed to go unheard, no matter how often he tried to whisper reassurances.

The murmurs became screams find them kill them END THEM SHE'S YOURS and Vlad placed the lid on her soda without another thought.

His second eyes had watched Jasmine throughout his internal conflict. She'd curled deep into the blanket, staring at the fire. Only an occasional sniffle broke the silence. Her lips were trembling. Her eyes were vacant.

"_The little ghost had bubby's eyes_," she'd said.

Conventional investigation had failed, it seemed. Justice was slow on the uptake. Vlad strode back into the master suite and handed Jasmine both the teddy and her soda. He didn't hesitate to lift her once more, placing her tiny body firmly in his lap. Jasmine was such a tactile child, really. She never turned down a good cuddle.

"Are you settled, _kiska_?" Vlad questioned, watching as she gulped down her treat. "We should decide what story you want to hear."

Jasmine paused only to tuck her head further into his collarbone. She was still shaking; however, the worst of her earlier panic seemed to have abated. Then she whispered, "I want to hear the one about the Clock-keeper and his brothers again."

Vlad smirked. Legends of the Ghost Zone had quickly become Jasmine's favorites. Fortuitous, in a sense, should any slip-ups occur. He plucked the heavy leather tome from its perch beside them, opening it across their laps to the appropriate page. Whispers echoed from between the pages, followed by the sound of clock gears turning. A metronome of souls. Ever-present, ever-steady, and yet fluid.

Before he could begin, Jasmine's tiny hand grasped at his wrist. "Uncle Vlad?"

"Yes, darling?"

The tiny body tucked into him felt breakable as china, and she sounded just as fragile. "Did. . . did my Mommy kill Danny? I don't. . . that little boy had his _eyes_."

Everything was white-hot, a steady throb of kill them end them shatter them find it anger under his skin. "I don't know, my love. But we shall find our answers soon enough. Now, let's read a story and try to forget such unpleasant things for now. How does that sound?"

Jasmine swallowed another gulp of soda. The cup was nearly empty already. She nodded. "Okay, Uncle Vlad."

His voice was unerringly steady, weaving the tale of Clockwork and his brothers as he had countless times before. The images swirling in vivid blues and purples above the pages were well-known by now, but no less impressive. It was funny, thinking that ghosts – which were spirits of the dead by definition – had their own forms of creation myths. Clockwork truly was a fascinating creature. A being who could see and manipulate all of time – the thought defied traditional definitions of ghosts as they stood. But the proof was in the being himself, who had once set Vlad in a time loop for tampering with an area that was supposedly "protected" by Time.

As he read, Vlad could feel Jasmine growing lax against him. Heavier and heavier, fingers slackening around her cup, until her tiny body finally succumbed to the small amount of barbiturate running through it. Gently, he plucked the treat from her before it could have a chance to spill. Undeterred, Vlad finished her story regardless, pressing a heavy kiss to the top of Jasmine's head before standing to tuck her in for a nap. The darling deserved a good, long sleep.

Behind him, the shadows roiled, hissed and crooned sweet, bloody lullabies. Outside, a storm was beginning to brew. The sky heavy and thick with moisture. Thunder growled in the distance. It was going to rain. May showers and sunflowers.

Vlad rolled his shoulders then glanced back over one. "Stay with her. Keep her safe. Or there will be _consequences_."

A nervous chitter. The curtains rustled though the air had grown still. Vlad smiled blandly. "Very good. I shall be back before she wakes."

And with that, he dropped through the floorboards. Down, down, down until he landed on the solid concrete floor of his laboratory. It was quiet save for the low hum of his portal. The air smelt. Whether of ectoplasm or steel, Vlad couldn't tell. His skin was threatening to peel. Sparking. Bubbling. _Burning_.

"Now. . . where to find my answers?" he muttered quietly.

Find him find him find him kill them all kill them all they took everything they won't take this KILL THEM

The transformation had become easy as breathing, though the pain had never grown less. It was a shock, electricity clawing up his spine until oxygen meant nothing and power flooded his veins. Every nerve, every muscle, every artery sparking like a damaged livewire. His face had always been particularly bad. It was like going through the accident again. . . flesh bubbling, eyes watering, nerves in agony, the smell of cooking flesh.

And then it was over.

And where once stood a man stood a monster.

Plasmius grinned. "Where better to find my answers than with a _hunter_?"

He blasted through the open portal doorway, relishing in the rush of ectoplasm over his ears and through his hair. The Ghost Zone was a fascinating place, scientifically. Fluid rather than actual space. Were he still human, Vlad would have been drowning in something about the consistency of corn syrup. And electrocuted by the vast currents of untamed energy that sometimes manifested. But as Plasmius?

He felt _invincible_.

It was a relatively short journey to Skulker's lair, unimpeded as he was by other ghosts. He caught a few lingering on the barest edges of his sight. But a quick, lazy blast of ectoplasm ensured he'd remain unbothered. Well, relatively, anyways. He still couldn't quite make the throbbing pulse of anger in his chest eb. Nor could he silence the vicious whispers that lingered just beneath his skull. Power power power you have it now use it kill them kill them killthem take what's yours don't stop

Still, Vlad couldn't afford to act on the whispers. The barbiturates, while useful, would only make Jasmine sleep for short while considering the small dose she'd received. He'd have to work quickly and efficiently. There would be time for blood later.

Now was reserved for business.

Skulker's Island was a dense jungle, thickly carpeted with trees and underbrush that bristled with traps. Lesser ghosts across the Zone had met their fate here. Cornered like rats in cages. Hunted, then killed. Skinned. Really, it was a wonder anyone dared enter this area of the Zone at all. Skulker may not have been an exceptional intellect, but he was certainly cunning. And vicious should you cross his bad side. Still, he'd been a bit. . . lax as of late. There were rumors his relationship with the McClain girl, the rocker with siren abilities, had softened him. Made him _weak_.

Vlad landed without care in the middle of the lair and knew this to be true. There wasn't a trap sprung, not an arrow flying his way. No nets, no bullets, no rockets. Nothing but the sound of ghostly wildlife and piercing echoes.

"What are _you _doing here, half-breed?" It was a savage bark, just to his left. "Leave now, or I might just realize your pelt looks more appealing at the foot of my bed."

Ah – what a charming man.

Vlad picked lazily at some dirt beneath his claws. "Appetizing as that sounds, Skulker, I have need for your skills. I'm looking for someone, and I need verification of their whereabouts. Think of this as a job-offer, if you'd like."

He twisted just enough to catch a look at Skulker's cybernetic-riddled face. It was twisted in disgust warring with caution. He smiled lazily – it paid in more ways than one to build a reputation. Plasmius floated up as though he were sitting in a chair, legs crossed at the knee and hands folded in a position of false casualty.

"What sort of verification are you looking for, _Plasmius_?" Skulker's tone was harsh as always, but the edges were tinged with something different: apprehension. "I'm a hunter, not some kind of personal detective. I don't work for you."

The placid, almost friendly smile on Vlad's face morphed into a savage facsimile of a grin. "There are other methods of persuasion, Skulker. By all means, allow me to demonstrate them. I've been _itching _for some fun these last few months."

Skulker tensed, teeth bore in a snarl. Vlad snarled right back, fangs like daggers in the low light of the Zone. It was a stare-down. Ragged. Furious. The air darkened, heavy with moisture. Something smelled of old blood, iron and decay.

"What would be in it for me?"

Satisfaction pulsed in time with the rage. "New weapons, of course. Design what you will, no matter the specs, and I shall take care of the development and cost. I know how. . . taxing it can be to deal with Technus."

After another tense moment, the cyborg settled onto the ground a few meters away. His gaze was sharp, assessing. Vlad smirked at him. For all his talk of "half-breeds" Skulker knew who the bigger monster here was. There wouldn't really _be _a fight should it come down to that.

"And all you're looking for is information?" he scoffed. "If I must work for you, I would rather hunt."

Kill them kill them hunt them break them welcome to the jungle little mouse hunt them down

"We cannot always get what we want, dear boy." Vlad touched to down again.

This time, Skulker snorted. "No shit."

A sneer curled his lip. "There's no need for such language, Skulker, honestly. A simple agreement would have sufficed." Vlad quirked an eyebrow, flexing his claws just to catch attention. "Now – do we have a deal?"

"It's not really like I have a choice, do I?"

Vlad's placid smile returned, though his eyes gleamed with bloodlust. "No. No, you do not."

"Fine. Tell me what you want and leave. Looking at you makes my skin crawl."

It was a common reaction, he'd found. Vlad was quick to realize that, as uncomfortable as humans were around him, ghosts were almost _worse_. They had heightened senses, acute awareness of their environment. Because he wasn't quite dead, nor was he quite alive, it seemed his presence rang different in the Ghost Zone. A sort of. . . uncanny valley for ghosts, if you will.

Using it to his advantage had become one of his favorite pass-times.

Vlad shrugged one shoulder, smiling meanly at the other ghost. "As you wish. I have recently become guardian to my goddaughter. Her younger brother was. . . . _lost_, shall we say, in November. I want you to ascertain his whereabouts."

A sneer of contempt twisted Skulker's metal-ridden face. "I am the greatest hunter in the Ghost Zone, and you want me to find some pitiful mewling _whelp_." He grunted, fiddling with a locating device on one wrist. "What's his name?"

"Daniel Fenton," Vlad answered succinctly. "He likely goes by Danny."

Then, for some strange reason, Skulker froze. The only thing that moved was the flicker of that _absurd_ fire mohawk. Then, slowly, he looked up to make eye-contact. "What did you say?"

Something's wrong all wrong break them kill them take them _she's yours_

"Daniel Fenton. Danny, for short." His fingers twitched, claws tapping out a pattern on one forearm. "What seems to be the issue, Skulker? You're typically not this slow on the uptake."

The cyborg regarded him strangely for a second. Then rasped, "How old is he? This welp you're looking for?"

Eidetic memories were such a wonderful thing. "He will be five on May 24th. Rather small. Caucasian, blue eyes and black hair. A rather attractive child, if he looks anything like Jasmine."

if he looks like his mother looks like Maddie beautiful perfect wonderful Maddie

Skulker's expression grew solemn, skin paling beneath his various implants. "Oh _shit_. . . You said he disappeared in November?"

something's wrong wrong wrong wrong hate them kill them break them end it

Anxiety began crawling up and down Vlad's limbs. His claws dug in, ectoplasm welling up beneath fabric. The muscles in his jaw clenched. "You know something, Skulker."

It wasn't a question.

Nervous energy practically oozed from Skulker. He rolled his shoulders, cracked his knuckles, shifted from foot to foot, then finishethought d by crossing his arms. In contrast, Vlad allowed himself to go perfectly still. Not a twitch. Not a sigh. He felt a knot in his stomach. Anxiety, rage, despair. Everything that had been festering in his half-dead cesspit of a body for the last decade. It wouldn't. . . he couldn't. . . it wasn't _possible_,was it?

"Just a hunch," Skulker grunted. It was a _hedge_. "Walker's got a new kid. . . 'bout that age. New arrivals don't usually keep the same coloring from life. But the timeline kind of fits. I just don't know the details of the – _aghk!_"

His ears were full of blood. Pumping, rushing, flooding through every cell in his body until everything was washed in red. Vlad welcomed it. After all this time, being angry felt _good_. It was easy. Easy to fall, easy to allow his heart to bleed black, easy to _squeeze_ while the monster in his skull shrieked. His grip on Skulker's throat was tight. But it didn't impede speech. . . much anyway.

"The devil is _in _the details, Skulker," Vlad droned, steady and deceivingly calm. "Tell me about the boy."

There was a funny thing about cybernetically-enhanced arms – they were _strong_. Skulker was clawing at his wrist, gripping it in a vice. Harder and harder, the bones of his wrist and forearm grinding against one another. But Vlad didn't move. Didn't flinch. Pain was an old friend. They would walk hand-in-hand forever, he was sure of it.

"Fucking hell, Plasmius!" Skulker wheezed. "All I know is his name's Danny! And he formed sometime in November!"

The rage built, hissed behind his eyes, but his face remained stone. Vlad squeezed just a little harder. Enough to make it. . . uncomfortable. The need to breathe was nonexistent but most ghosts found it rather disconcerting to be choked regardless. Habits were terrible things to have and wonderful things to exploit.

Vlad hummed, noncommittal. "Do you know why the devil is in the details, Skulker? Why I have succeeded in both the human world and the Ghost Zone?" His claws just barely dug into the soft flesh of Skulker's throat. "Because I make it my mission to know every detail. Knowing details gives me power. So, here is what we are going to do. You are going to gather _every last bit _of information on that boy you can. Then, when that is done, you will bring it back to me. And if I don't find it satisfactory, you will go into the human world and keep searching until you find what I am looking for. Am I understood?"

The cyborg thrashed, teeth bore in a snarl. Then he rasped, "You're insane, Plasmius."

A slow, vicious grin spread across Vlad's lips, creeping like poison. "You may have a point."

Without much effort, he twisted his wrist and sent Skulker flying, the man's body slamming into a nearby tree with enough force to splinter the trunk. He followed in a rush of electric speed. One fist lashed out and grazed his cheek. But it didn't stop him. Didn't even _slow him_. Vlad snarled, grin exposing each razor-fang in his mouth, and retaliated with a vicious blow to the solar plexus. Skulker crumpled, gasping for air.

Letting him fall to the ground below was easy as breathing.

Plasmius hovered just above the fallen ghost, smiling placidly, and allowed Skulker to claw at the wet earth beneath him. He gagged and gasped for breath. From what he could see, Vlad thought perhaps his eyes were watering. Or an implant was failing. That was a distinct possibility. Wires and plasma. . . it was such a fascinating symbiosis.

"I will reiterate for the singular purpose of getting you to realize that I am _not _the sort of man who takes cheek lightly." Vlad adjusted the cuffs of his suit, then stomped down hard Skulker's bent leg. "You _will_ find out who the warden's newest acquisition is. You _will _bring that information to me. And then I will do with that information what I please. Do we have an understanding?"

He'd grown rather good at getting his point across in recent years. Skulker was twitching beneath his boot, the crunch of bone just barely audible under the hunter's scream of agony. Nonetheless, he could see the man's emerald flame-mohawk dance as he nodded. Vlad smiled, pleased with his work.

"Excellent. I shall expect a report within the week." As he turned to head back towards his portal, Vlad called out a warning over one shoulder. "Do _not _disappoint me."

kill them kill them all this was supposed to be yours how could you what is this it's supposed to be yours take them break them kill them shatter it how dare they how dare they how FUCKING dare they?!

Vlad Plasmius disappeared in a rush of agony in the basement laboratory of a reclusive billionaire.

Vlad Masters took a nap with his goddaughter moments later, wrapped around her and shaking in every limb.

And the whispers that echoed from his lips were, "I'm sorry, _kiska_. I'm sorry, _lastochka_. I'm so, _so _sorry."

The shadows twisted, whispered, then disappeared in a peal of thunder.

**A/N: **

**I LIVE!  
**

**'tis been a rough month or so, my guys. This corona thing kicked me in the teeth. I lost my muse for a hot second. BUT! I found it! I don't know if I'll be able to update quickly again until after finals are over, but I shall endeavor to be more frequent in updating the story going forward. **

**This was such an interesting chapter to write, mostly because it's entirely written in the perspective of Vlad. Who is a psychopath and _stupid _difficult to write. I hope that I got him true to form. And, before anyone tackles me about him drugging Jazz, hear me out. Vlad has been _mostly _a good dad the past several months. But he's also still actually a huge sack of fuck. So, in his mind, drugging poor baby so he can go out and kick the stuffing out of Skulker was, you know, a viable move. **

**He adores Jasmine. He would never do ANYTHING to physically hurt Jasmine. But psychologically? **

**The man has several screws loose and cannot be trusted to get his shit together, I mean, honestly.**

**On an unrelated note, I've gotten a couple of reviews and PMs on this story concerning my use of adult language and I thought I'd address it here. I understand swearing is not everyone's cup of tea. It's considered rude, crass, poor manners, etcetera by many. And you know something, that's okay! But I want to say that the swearing in this story and my notes is a personal stylistic choice. Certain people swear more than others. Some people that you would NEVER peg to be prone to blue-language swear like absolute maniacs. Spectra is one such person. Teenagers swear like there's nothing better to do because, to them, there _is _nothing better to do. It's a great way of thumbing your nose at authority. I swear as a manifestation of my anxiety. It developed in my junior year of high school and has just gotten worse as I've aged. **

**That was long-winded, but the point I'm trying to make is this: this is _my _story. It is written in the voices I picture and in the ways I wish. If you don't like the language I, as an author, choose that's great! But don't expect me to tailor my writing style or voice to suit your needs or wishes. I've gotten a couple of those PMs. They are infuriating. It's your choice whether or not to continue to read Danny Died. It's my choice to ignore people telling me what to do. **

**I apologize if that sounded long-winded or condescending. That's never my intention when I write these things, but I find it really difficult to figure out whether or not that's the way it sounds to others. I just wanted to nip those in the bud before I did something really fucking stupid. **

**PHEW so that was a shit-storm! Anyways, I just want to thank all of you SO MUCH for your continued love and support. It means everything to me, you have no idea. I also want to extend prayers and well-wishes to all of you across the globe. COVID is a fucking nightmare, and isolation is terrible. But I have faith we'll get through it together. Keep your heads high and your pens steady. I'm here for all of you. **

**See you in the next one. **


	23. Chapter 23

_Once upon a time, before the world became old and the Zone of my people was young, there lived and died a man. _

_Perhaps, however, that is not the best of beginnings. . . _

_Perhaps we should start with - _

_the first is old and fades in his sleep. the second does not make it a year before the beasts tear him apart. the third is cruel and stupid and the council must make a decision. they debate. they question. they form a contract, ancient magicks. split their palms and whisper. ectoplasm on parchment on marble tabletops. the void carries the contract. _

_the ancients accept._

_ectoplasm is life, and it is death, and life now must be paid for in death later. _

_but the fourth is strong and noble and has fists carved in granite. he roars. the zone listens._

_a king is born. _

_this king was a warrior in life. strong and broad in the shoulders. he towers and he booms and the keep shakes with the thunder he carries. lightning in his fists. fire in his core. he was once a human but what is dead is no longer so, and thus he must acquire a new name. more fitting for his station, they say. it takes decades. centuries, even, for how does one name someone such as this? it is done in whispers, in fearful glances, in dungeons filled with prisoners of war._

_the people call him pariah, king of the dark. _

_and so he is. _

_more decades pass and pariah dark rules all. he is bold. he is strong. thunder in his heart and granite in his fists. fire in his crown. the council watches and is pleased. the people bow. the zone is contained. but pariah is not content. he wishes for a queen, someone to share his throne and warm his bed. and to know pariah is to obey pariah, to lay your heart bare upon the stone. to know pariah is to know obedience. and so there is a search for a queen. it takes years, legions of soldiers crawling through lairs. taking girls from their beds, girls who are young and fair and scarred by the hands of their king. but in the end – _

_it is the king's most loyal warrior who finds her, a soldier named calder with scales on his armor. _

_she is small and delicate, with eyes too liquid dark and lips that seem to gleam red. she is not beautiful. but only those who have not met her say this, for to know the woman is to love the woman. to know the woman is to want her happiness, see her smile with teeth that are too sharp, and to know that she is beautiful. the king meets her. the king loves her, and his fists like granite are delicate when they touch her fair skin. _

_they are wed on the winter solstice and he places a ring upon her finger, ruby and diamond, and it glitters like a wicked secret. _

_the people call her anathema._

_the council grows cautious. suspicious. they fear this woman who is beautiful and not in equal measure. but to know the queen is to love the queen. to know the queen is to think she is beautiful. to know the queen is to want to please her. they fall, one by glorious one, husks of souls scattered in the winds. _

_and the queen smiles._

_her teeth are long and sharp and stained green._

_there is a warrior, and his name is calder, and he is the king's closest confidant. he is a protector, a mentor, a friend to a man with fire in his soul and a crown upon his head. the people kneel before their pariah but they cheer for his right-hand. they whisper amongst each other in confidence. he is a dragon, they say, a serpent of the sea. he can change his scales. he can change his teeth._

_what they do not question is who can save them. there is no rescue from power such as this. darkness is patient, and it is cruel, and there is no hope. but there is fear. there is contempt. there is hatred. _

_these are powerful things – they can become magick._

_once upon a time, they say, there was a king and a queen and a warrior. they were strong, my people whisper. they were glorious, my people hush. they were shone like stars in the sky, my people declare in quiet awe._

_they were all this and more. . . _

_but only for a moment, and my people's smiles are cruel things._

_because centuries have passed and pariah is still strong, still brash and loud. his fists are granite and his crown is fire and to know him is to know the lash of a whip upon your shoulder. anathema is beautiful. beautiful and terrible, and to know her is to love her, to fear a benevolent smile full of teeth and stained lips. calder is a warrior. he can change his scales again and again and again. his mind is warping, twisting, and there is madness festering in this one, the people whisper. it's only a matter of _

_TIME_

_and in this time, my people are not young. they are not new. they are old and battered and do not wish to be trod-upon. they see a king with granite-fists and resent him. they see a queen with their deepest desires in her eyes and ectoplasm on her teeth, and they fear her. they see a soldier who trades his armor for scales and they hate him. they whisper in hidden lairs, eyes glancing over shoulders to see if the king's shadow looms. _

_they whisper plans. _

_they form pacts. ectoplasm on parchment on scarred wooden tables. ectoplasm is not life, but nor is it death, and so life now must be paid for in death later. the zone carries the contracts and the ancients accept. no new king is born, but there is a girl and a boy, and their anger gives them dragon teeth._

_this is the end of kings, of queens, of soldiers with dragon scales. _

_there is a handmaiden and her name is dorathea. a princess in life and a servant in death and she tends to the queen's every need. to know the queen is to love the queen, to fear her gentle smile. but dorathea has a brother, aragon, who is loud and brash and gnashes his teeth at the zone, and the king has set his terrible gaze upon the boy. she is timid. she is kind. but her spine is made from steel and it is she who slips the poison in the queen's wine._

_dorathea cries as the queen called anathema coughs ectoplasm on her silken sheets and cries fat black tears. her hands tremble. but they stop soon enough. _

_soon enough, she smiles, liquid-eyes and white teeth, and whispers, "sleep well, my queen."_

"_we heard nothing, my king," the servants say, defeated and bowed and weary. _

_this is a lie. the queen called anathema had faded gasping, loud and rattling and horrid. begging for a mercy that she had never bestowed, a kindness that would not come._

"_we saw no one leave her chambers, your grace," the maids whisper, trembling before their king with his fire-crown. _

_this is a lie. they had watched as dorathea slipped from her majesty's chambers with tears on her cheeks, a smile on her lips. her hands had not trembled at all. there was a ring between her fingers, and it glittered like wicked secrets._

_but pariah dark does not know this. he cannot spot a lie._

_pariah is a warrior. there is lightning in his core, thunder in his lungs, and the keep shakes with his roar of anguish. the zone draws in a breath. waits for the rage to come crashing like a squall, soldiers rushing through lairs and crushing souls beneath their heel, led by a king who was a man slathering in his fury. but it does not come. _

_there is another._

_it is a clock-keeper, who watches from lands afar and intervenes only when needed. the people whisper, darkness in their chests, for where was this keeper when they were frightened? when they were beaten and broken and damned by this king chosen for them? but the clock-keeper smiles, and it is wise, and there are millions of centuries locked within ruby eyes. my people do not understand, for how can children understand the machinations of one so terribly Other?_

_the clock-keeper watches. the clock-keeper chooses another council. powerful ghosts, ancient and terrible as the dawn, and sets them upon the king. it is a battle that shakes the very bones of the zone. but they are many, and pariah is but one, and they seal him in a sarcophagus of the dream-master's making. they strip the jewels from his fingers and the crown from his head and do not tremble when the stars cackle overhead. they send his loyal soldier fleeing, scales gleaming as they melt into the shadows. _

_he is calder no more, they say, and this is a warning the people do not need._

_the queen's ring is taken from dorathea, for she has her own jewels and the magicks that go with them. it rests, guarded by a beast with no name and many faces, a behemoth, and it hordes its treasure jealously. the crown is hidden deep within the cold, for the metal is flame, sparking, and all who touch it burn. the king called pariah sleeps. but he does not fade. he waits to return._

_once upon a time, the zone of my people was young, and we were young with it. but that is no more. we are older still now. cruel and contemptuous and jaded. our smiles are jagged. we cannot spot a lie._

_we have not learned our lesson._

_will you learn yours?_

~*O*~

he's alone and there's no one here, nothing but dust and that _awful_ smell and he needs to find them. he just needs to find them, his kids. Penelope – where's Penelope? he doesn't understand, and everything keeps crumbling under his fingers and it _burns_ why does it burn? cold and cold shouldn't burn but this cold does, reaches down into his lungs and scrapes at his nerves until everything is on fire even though he can see his breath and -

walker sees them, tiny bodies twisted and broken and staring towards the sky and their eyes are milky, staring, empty and his stomach heaves and his heart hurts and he _screams_ –

danny keeps crumbling under his fingers and his lips are blue but this isn't what cold does to bodies? this isn't right. nothing is right, none of this, and he can smell iron and mist and scales, like a massive snake slithering down the back of his neck and he just can't stop _crying_, holding his boy and rocking as danny cracks under his grip and where's pen? where is she?

taylor's fingers are black and he can't get a grip, everything splitting under his touch until there's nothing left of his best guy but those big staring eyes that keep looking at him, scared and alone and he could've _saved them_ what the hell happened? he doesn't understand. can't breathe can't breathe can't breathe just hold them and it'll be alright, he can fix it.

he can fix this.

except he can't and there's a whisper and then a laugh and it's painted in silver, dripping like water off a roof, and he tries to hold on to danny, he _tries_, but his boy crumbles to dust and there's nothing but the smell of rot and decay and he cries, cries like he did when he was little and his paw beat him with the horse whip 'cause men don't cry get hold of yerself. there's the laugh again, then a whisper, his name _jeremiah _like a prayer in the church house, and he stumbles up –

and it's penny. gray skin, filmy eyes, and there's a big gash on her throat dripping green, gushing over his fingers and he's _screaming_ now and he puts his hand over the slash, tries to keep it in, save her save her and "penny, honey, I can't lose you too" and he's crying and there it is again, scales on the back of his neck and someone hisses in his ear, _"she's not yours she never was_" and

she smiles at him. gentle, like the ones she gives danny, and her hand feels like ice when it touches his face, thumb stroking his cheek, and he can see his breath, why can he see his breath, and she whispers,

"you promised."

and he _did_ and he _failed _and she's crying too, thick black streaks over her cheeks, but she keeps smiling, always smiling, and he wants it to stop, gags at the smell of wet cold dirt and old blood and rot, the smell of old scales, and there's a snake crawling up his legs, wrapping around his chest and it _burns_ and –

"he's coming. be ready"

and there's fangs and penelope smiles and whispers a silver, "you promised" and

Walker sat bolt upright in bed, clawing for air. His stomach heaved, cold sweat plastering his shirt down, and the sheets were so twisted around his ankles he thought they might've been cutting off circulation. The room was quiet. Too quiet. Where were the boys? Pen? Em? It smelled like cotton and cedar.

It took a minute for everything to settle in his head. Even though his core continued to whine viciously in his ears. His fingers were shaking. So he did what he always did. Glanced at the clock – three a.m. of course – and untangled himself. His left leg tried to give out from under him. He ignored the pins and needles, ignored the knock of his knees, and stumbled to the bathroom. No lights. He hated seeing his face. The bags, the bruises, the _fear_.

Jeremiah Walker didn't _do _fear. If he ignored it, maybe it would go away. Maybe he could force things to go away.

Pen would have his head in the morning, he was sure. She'd given him this big long speech a couple days ago after the boys had gone to bed. Something about proper sleep hygiene and how sleep deprivation could cause all sorts of psych mumbo-jumbo to go wrong with him. That he needed to vent off pressure about the nightmares. Something was said about a journal after that but he'd kinda tuned out. He was just so _tired_.

But the jitters still wouldn't go away. Not even after he'd doused himself in cold water and heaved into the toilet. Not even after brushing his teeth and saying a prayer dead eyes flimy eyes staring into the distance and everything smells like rot and she won't _move_ and he's praying _just wake up just please not her not like this_that nothing else would happen, that the boys would stay asleep and everything would stay the same. His fingers kept shaking. His legs felt like Jell-O.

There wouldn't be going back to bed, Walker decided.

The fan was whirring quietly, a click every third second. He needed to fix that. Sometimes, the lair gave him little things to fix when he felt stressed. It helped a bit. Walker glanced down the hall. The boys were still asleep, it looked like, because the door was shut and the nightlight on. There was red peeping from under the door. That meant Pen was probably still asleep, too. Woman slept like a log. . . if logs snored. Well, not so much snored as snuffled? It was a weird sound, almost like a kitten. . .

He needed water. Or whiskey.

Whiskey sounded pretty good.

It was probably telling him something that he'd gotten so good at navigating the stairs in the dark. Walker decided not to think about that either. Instead, he stayed quiet and forced his shaking legs down to the kitchen. Through the living room, between the couch and armchair. Towards his liquor cabinet, where amnesia waited.

Except he never made it because one of the lamps flicked on and he nearly Faded, core pounding behind his eyes, a scream itching to leave his throat.

Penelope lifted an unimpressed eyebrow and scowled. She was blinking muzzily in the sudden light, but her eyes were bright. Too bright. Those were trouble eyes, he'd learned. The ones that showed up right before she tried to tear a chunk of hide out of him, most of the time over something she thought was stupid.

"What the hell are you doing?" she rasped, groggy but lucid. "It's three in the morning, and you don't have to go in until ten tomorrow. You should be _asleep_."

Walker scowled right back and clenched his fists. "Getting' somethin' t'drink. What're _you _doin' down here?"

A hint of a blush lit Penelope's cheeks, and she set her jaw. "I slept here in case you did something stupid after our talk. Like, oh, I don't know, come downstairs after a nightmare to hide instead of sleeping?"

"I'm not _hidin'_!" Walker hissed. "I jus' needed a drink! What are ya, my mama?!"

He was tired, and his nerves were fried, and he just _did not _want to deal with her mouth right now. So Walker decided he'd feel bad about the stung look on Pen's face later. Then she lifted her chin and crossed her arms over her chest, eyes glowing in the low light, and he realized he'd opened up a _whole _can of worms. His fingers still wouldn't stop shaking.

Why wouldn't they quit?

"No, I'm not your mother," Penelope ground out. "But I'm pretty sure at this point you'd agree we're friends. I'm _trying _to help you, jackass. Now _let me_!"

She'd been awful nice earlier, when they'd talked, if not a bit preachy. And the last couple of days had been pretty quiet, all things considered. Walker had kinda wondered when the boot would drop. Well, there it was. Steel-toed and pissy, just like everything else Pen did. And it just ranall_ over _him.

"Ya wanna help?!" he snarled. "Go t'bed an' leave well enough alone! 'm fine!"

"_Bullshit!_" she spat. "You look like hell! For fuck's sake, Walker, you're shaking!"

He was. The fact that she noticed made him _mad_. His fists and jaw clenched tighter. "Leave it alone, Pen. I mean it."

Sometimes, he forgot how tall Penelope really was. But it didn't take much tip-toeing for her to get in his face. Walker blinked. When did she stand up? When did she even move? All he could see was green, streaked through with red as her temper flared. She was in his space. Why was she in his space? He didn't want this. Didn't like it. She'd see. Pen _always _saw what he didn't want her to.

"Jeremiah Walker, don't pull this shit on me. Don't you _dare _pull this shit on me! For once in your life, let me _help you_! Why won't you just let me help?!" She sounded fed up and worried.

Walker ground his teeth and tried not to lose it. "Penelope. I'm serious. _Leave it_."

The red flared, and she tossed up her hands in disgust. "How the _fuck _am I supposed to leave it when you leave here every morning looking like a walking corpse! Dammit, Jeremiah, you can't just. . .!"

His nerves were absolutely _shot_, and the swearing was just grating on every last one. "If I have to tell you one more time t'watch yer mouth, I swear, you'll regret it."

That wasn't meant to be a threat. It wasn't even meant to leave his mind, much less growl out at Pen. But Walker knew the _moment _it left his lips that he'd screwed up. Penelope blanched and reeled away like he'd smacked her, and. . . crap, her eyes were watering. He didn't mean that. He didn't mean anyof that. God, he hated it when she cried. It was like his heart broke every time, and he just couldn't figure out how to fix that? Or her feelings?

He was bad with feelings and this was _not _what he wanted to be doing at three in the morning.

Walker felt guilt crawl all over him, and his shoulders slumped, hands still trembling by his sides. "Pen, sugar, I didn' mean that," he whispered. " 'm just. . . tired. 'm sorry."

Penelope's bottom lip got trapped between her teeth, arms wrapped tight around her middle. She wouldn't look him in the eye.

"It's been a long time since you threatened me," she rasped, voice thick, but she tried to smirk a bit. It looked more like a grimace. "Old habits, I guess."

Penelope was shaking. She was trying to make him feel better, or at least figure out what was wrong, and he'd gone and scared her. This just. . . he wasn't. . . Walker felt like he could puke.

"Honey, 'm serious. I'm sorry – that was uncalled for. You're just tryin' t' help."

Penelope finally looked him in the eye again, shoulders slumped forward. "I just don't understand why you won't _let me_! Jeremiah, you nearly fucking Faded just to keep me safe a few months ago. You've always got everything sitting square on your shoulders. Let me take some of it for once. I'm a big girl. I can handle it."

That was the thing.

Walker _knew _she could handle it. He'd seen lesser ghosts shatter under the pressure that Penelope had been under in less than a fraction of the time she'd been in the Zone. She'd been beaten, gaslighted, and forced to feed off misery for decades. She dealt with a deeply traumatized four-year-old boy daily, handled every panic and tackled problems that made his stomach hurt without flinching. And she might've complained constantly, but Danny (and Tay) absolutely _adored _her, thought she hung the moon in the sky. Penelope Spectra was one of the strongest people he had ever met.

And he just. . .

"I don' wanna be another problem t' deal with," he growled. "And 'm tired of always havin' _one more problem _t' deal with. I need a break. _You _need a break! 'm sick of everythin' bein' this endless friggin' fight to be normal!" His chest heaved, trying to catch a breath. "So maybe if I just stick it out, if I jus' pretend like Nocturne ain't gettin' on my bad side, there won't be anything else dropped on our plates. Does that sound good t'you?! Huh?!"

There was something burning his eyes, and Walker wasn't sure if it was tears or not, but he didn't want to find out. He swallowed around the lump of iron in his throat. _Why _couldn't he stop shaking? This was ridiculous.

Penelope stared at him for a second, all big eyes, and gnawed at her lip. Then she sighed. "Please don't make me regret this."

Walker very nearly growled again. But just as he went to, Penelope wrapped both arms around his middle and squeezed tight. He froze up. She just squeezed a bit tighter, head tucked under his chin, and he could feel her hands clench in his sweaty shirt. The burn in his eyes got worse. His throat clenched.

Slowly, he hugged back. God, tall as she was, Penelope was _tiny_. He felt like he'd break her in half with one good squeeze, so he gripped his forearms tight to keep that from happening. Walker buried his face in her hair. It wasn't just his hands that were shaking now.

"You're a big, noble idiot," Penelope huffed against his collarbone. "Honestly, what's one more problem in the grand scheme? You try to fix _everything_ for everyone else, Tex. Just. . . let me do the fixing this time. Okay? Please?"

Walker felt his breath hitch, and he squeezed harder. "I hate this," he mumbled thickly. "I _hate it_."

"I know you do, honey."

"I just wanna sleep." It sounded closer to a whine than he wanted, but _God _he was tired. He was so _friggin_' tired.

Penelope pulled away just a tad and smiled at him sadly. "Let's go to bed, then. We've got plenty of time before the boys get up. You could probably even get away with sleeping in."

One hand slipped into his and tugged, and his fingers weren't shaking anymore. Walker didn't even care about getting his whiskey anymore. He wasn't even really sure he cared about _anything_ anymore. He followed Penelope without a word, ignoring the light flicking off and trudging back upstairs. She didn't let go of his hand once, a thumb rubbing over his knuckles.

She paused on the landing, eyes bright in the dim. "Do you want to check on the boys?"

Walker thought about it for a second tiny bodies cold dirt you didn't save them oh, God, the _smell_ but shook his head. "Nah, let 'em sleep. They've got their own nightmares t' deal with."

He thought she was rolling her eyes but couldn't quite be sure. Penelope yanked his arm until he stood in front of her. Then she shoved him into the bedroom. It almost made him laugh. She was always so _impatient_. Except with the kids, who probably could've murdered someone and got away with it. Figuratively, anyway. Pen was actually kind of the disciplinarian? It was weird not being the one that was yelling to pick up toys or wash hands and. . .

Since when was he back in bed?

Walker frowned as Penelope pulled the covers up over both of them. "What're ya doin'?"

"Going to sleep," she breezed, like it was something they did every night. "Lift up your arm, I'm cold."

He probably would've argued more if he wasn't so stunned. As it was, Walker let her snuggle up under his arm and did his best impression of a statue. Penelope curled tight against him, head resting on his shoulder, and grabbed for his other hand. It made him tense a bit more. But then Pen sighed heavily, squeezing at his knuckles.

"Relax, Tex," she soothed. "We're grown-ups. I just didn't want you to go back to sleep alone."

Walker swallowed thickly. "How'd ya know I don' wanna be alone?"

"Because I never want to be alone after a nightmare," she answered quietly. "Sometimes I go check on Danny after having one. It helps a little."

He'd known that. Mostly 'cause she'd been doing it since that first week or so. He was pretty sure she'd slept in the boys' room for about a week straight after Danny's energy build-up scare. But listening to her explain it out loud kind of hurt. No one should've had nightmares the way she and Danny her eyes are dripping black and she smiles in silver and whispers "you promised" had. It was sick. Walker gave her hand a light squeeze. They were quiet for a long time. And he was so _tired_. But his eyes wouldn't close because he just. . . couldn't make himself.

"Everyone keeps dying. In the nightmares." Walker rasped before he could stop himself. It felt like it echoed. "I'm alone and then I find the boys. But they're already gone. I try to hold 'em an' they just. . . crumble? They turn to dust an' I can't _do _anything."

His eyes burned again, and Penelope huddled even closer. "Walker, that's not going to happen. That's what you went and got these for, remember?"

She let go of his hand and ran her thumb over the edge of a glyph on his shoulder. Walker swallowed, and it felt like gulping down cement. "I know that. But. . . it's the eyes. They've always got the same eyes and _you_. . ." He trailed off, choking on everything that had spiraled down on him.

"I what, Tex?"

"You were dead, too. Everyone was dead."

It was a cop-out, but he couldn't bring himself to describe everything in the nightmares filmy gray corpse eyes and long fangs dripping venom and the sound of scales on skin and _rot_. Not when she'd finally stopped having them so often herself. Penelope didn't say anything for a second, just ran her thumb back and forth over his knuckles. She snugged her cheek tighter to his shoulder. His breath caught, and Walker turned to bury his face in her hair again. It smelled like mint and rosemary, her new shampoo, still a little damp from her shower.

"That's not going to happen, Jeremiah," Penelope whispered again, and she sounded so _sure _of herself. "Because you made a promise. And you don't break promises, right?"

Was her hair wetter all of a sudden?

"Right," he choked out.

"So go to sleep," Penelope soothed again. "None of what you saw will happen. Because you're a stubborn cowboy, and I know you're not going to let it. Okay?"

"Tell that to Nocturne."

"Fuck Nocturne," she growled. "Go to sleep – he doesn't know shit."

Walker couldn't help but cough out a surprised laugh, and he squeezed her tighter. His eyes just wouldn't stay open anymore. It was warm, and comfortable, and the room smelled like Penelope. Her head actually made a pretty good pillow for his cheek.

"Night, Pen."

He was nearly asleep already, so he couldn't be sure, but he thought he might've felt a pair of lips on his cheek, a nose rubbing along his jaw. "Sleep tight, big guy."

There were no more nightmares that night.

The sky is open and the boys are playing with their friends, war-cries in the air, and everything is warm and Penelope smiles at him, all big green eyes, and he winds her hair in his fingers and she whispers, "you promised"

and he answers "I kept it"

~*O*~

Bertrand is very old, and he is very strong, and walls cannot keep him from seeing.

He watches, eyes in the shadows, and hears the whispers those little monsters that creep in the night. The Zone is an ancient place. It is full of magick and has its favorites. It protects those which feed it, those which do not fear the darkened corners and scorched earth and an endless abyss. Bertrand is not his name. Not the one he arrived with.

But the Zone does not recognize names.

So he watches.

The jacket they have him in is confining. It holds his arms behind his back, and he cannot move them. The muzzle keeps his teeth blunt, his mouth small. His nose is strong, but not long, and there is no power to his jaws anymore. He feels like an artist gone blind, so much _less_ than Before. And, still, he watches. Listens to the shadows.

For the shadows are patient. They have all the time in the world, all the time in the Zone, and they will gather him unto themselves when the moment is right. All he need do is wait. Watch. _Listen_.

There is a lair, on the edge of the Zone, near where the dark is strong. The monsters watch the edges. But they cannot go in. Magick, they tell him, it burns the warden's skin. Wards that are black and thick and harsh, bright fire that scorches all they touch. They protect a whelp, a boy, a princess, an idiot. They protect a warden.

They protect a star. His _zvezda_. Precious and bright and everything he _needs_. And his shadows cannot get close to her. They cannot touch her. They cannot brush her hair in the night, and they cannot whisper what she needs to hear, and they cannot make her stronger anymore. All the pretty wicked things are bereft of their brightest light, and the knowledge damns.

Bertrand is not his name. Bertrand is a craven, a mummer, a spider that weaves a web. _Spider, oh spider, pray why do you spin? Your pretty white web, so fine and so thin._ They catch fat flies and turn them into pies. . . Penelope is a scalpel and a star and a spider. Beautiful and broken like a mirror-dagger, with a smile that can shatter a heart. Bertrand taught her all she knows of the art of webs.

But _Calder _is a serpent. _Calder_ is a warrior. He is coils of scales and fangs and fire rising from the deep, and he takes what he wants. Fire and cold ocean spray and blood on the ground. Ectoplasm on teeth. Calder is a monster.

"Chow time, fuck-head!"

Calder snarls as the guard shoves a platter of gruel through his door. It is small, an opening just big enough for the tray of slop. Not enough for even a shifter to slither through. Serpents are sleek, yes, but they are not liquid, not entirely. And the jacket is a cage, and it clamps around his gelatin bones. Makes them solid. Makes him _weak_.

But. . .

Outside there is a star and she burns and the shadows whisper that she grows brighter every day. She smiles at a boy who is not her son, laughs with a man who does makes her _weak_. It makes his blood boil. His teeth grow long and they gnash behind their guard. His nails are claws and they do nothing against their bonds. All is light. All is weakness. He wants to crush them, break them, grind them into dust before her eyes and watch the star go supernova.

Here is Penelope, he will say, and all shall tremble before her.

Here is Spectra, and the Zone will adore her and despair.

And he gnaws on food that tastes little more than ash upon his tongue and dreams of the screams of dying men. Sees a queen whom he adored, who had his deepest secret in her eyes and ectoplasm on her teeth. He sees his queen from eons ago, with her hair like a sunset and her laugh like glittering bells, and tastes despair. Feels scales slither into place upon his skin.

He has lost one, this dragon of a dead-star.

There will not be another.

Calder is not Bertrand. They are the same, and they are not, and here they lie in wait. Trapped and watching, listening to the pretty little liars that crawl through their shadows. They see their _zvezda_ and she is. . . she sleeps with _him_, the warden with his magicks, and how DARE SHE?! She is content and curled safe and the false-children crawl in behind her and they are _weak_, insipid little things who would be murdered in their beds, heads dashed upon the walls, and he can feel the dragon waking. It is hellfire and cold sea-spray and untamed fury.

It is _power_.

Here is Calder and here is a knight long lost to time.

Here is Calder and the dragons of stars long-dead rage within him, crying for a queen who died with poison on her chin.

Here is Calder, trapped and broken, so much less than he was. A painter blinded. A composer deafened. A warrior paralyzed. The dragons rage and they scream and there is nothing to do but listen to the shadows as they croon. _Listen_, they whisper, _and wait_.

We will come for you.

They shadows are patient. They are generous. Calder burns in the furnace of his own heart and his dragon roars, but he eats this food like ash and does not retaliate. He bides his time.

He watches. And his _zvezda _sighs in her sleep and curls tight against a man who is not him. She burns bright in the darkness, and he can remember the way her eyes shine like gemstones when she cries. The softness of her lips, how they split against her teeth. The quick cut of her wit and the savage bite of her temper and the venom in her tongue. Her smiles are white and there is not a drop of ectoplasm to be seen.

Calder burns. Bertrand watches.

The shadows whisper _patience_.

And so they listen.

**A/N: I have crept out of my cave post-finals and decided to gift you with this cluster-fuck of a chapter. I don't know whether or not you'll thank me. Mostly because it's got Bertrand in it and he's. . . yeah. He's fucking creepy. A total nightmare of a person. **

**Mostly, this chapter was kind of me getting back into the swing of writing after, you know, scrambling desperately to finish the semester. Fuck Zoom-University guys, honestly. If I never have to listen to another lecture on pharmacology, it'll be too soon. But either way, I'm kind of proud about how this turned out? Dunno if it works, especially in that first section, but whatever. If I end up hating it later, I'll do some editing. I had fun either way. **

**Concerning poor Walker and his nightmares. . . listen, I have some pretty intense nightmares. And I have to say, the ONLY thing that ever seems to make them better is snuggling with someone until I go back to sleep. Someone, typically, is my dog. However, in this situation, I'm pretty sure a person is more beneficial. Also, they Full-Ass Grownups who can cuddle if they want, and Penelope is going to snuggle the FUCK outta that cowboy. I don't make the rules. **

**Anyway, thank you all so much for all the support and love you've shown me! I can't believe this story is already over a year old?! Leave me all that good feedback, and I'll see you guys in the next one!**


	24. Chapter 24

danny wakes up and his hair is sweaty.

he didn't have any bad dreams. that's always good. he doesn't have a whole lot of nights where he doesn't have bad dreams it's dark and it's cold and the cutting burning hungry _mommy please don't _and he's screaming but no one hears him and something sticky runs over his cheeks. but it's very early, he thinks – the room is dark and his nightlight is bright – so maybe he should go back to sleep? that would probably be best.

except emmy's snoring again 'cause she does that even if she tries to tell him that ladies don't snore. and tay keeps talking in his sleep. he sounds like he's crying a little, too. tay is his little big brother and his best big brother, but even big brothers have bad dreams sometimes. mama told him so. and that's why they're both allowed to snuggle in her or papa's bed when they wake up if they're scared.

danny crosses his arms and looks at the bottom of emmy's bed. johnny had brought him stars to put on it. they glow in the dark, all different colors of green and blue and purple not pink never pink 'cause that's the stuff they put in his arms and it made his head go fuzzy but they're not helping. emmy's snoring too loud. something thumps real loud and danny jumps, thinks it might be tay's arm. or his leg. there's more sleep-talking but he can't make out the words.

he's so tired. he just wants to _sleep_.

the stars are pretty. but it's also kinda loud in here and emmy keeps on snoring and tay won't stop sleep-talking. danny frowns. his head itches a little.

"No, Mom, please don't leave."

danny feels his tummy go cold and his chest hurts, real bad right in the middle, and he pushes back his covers. they're soft and they've got comets and NASA on them, but it's too hot. he stands up real quiet 'cause emmy gets cranky if they wake her up and tip-toes over to tay. he's frowning, still asleep, and there's lights on his arm that keep blinking.

should he wake him up? that's what mama does, right?

tay makes another frowny face and curls up in a ball, and his hair is sweaty, too. "Mom, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it."

danny swallows and his tummy knots some more. he puts his hand on tay's shoulder. it feels bony, and there's a weird kind of dip where his space arm starts. he shakes a little bit and whispers, _tay wake up. you gotta wake up!_

and he does. tay makes a funny kind of gasp and sits up too fast, and his eyes are wide and scared so danny doesn't touch him again. only mama or papa can touch him when he's too scared, so he doesn't wanna make tay feel worse either. it's tough being small, he thinks, even if you're a big kid. he waits his turn, watches until tay isn't breathing so hard and his eyes aren't so big.

he whispers again. _you were having bad dreams._

tay swallows real hard and looks over, but he doesn't look so scared anymore. his hair is still sweaty, though. it sticks up in big puffs all over his head just like danny's does.

"Yeah," tay whispers back, and his throat sounds sore. "I kinda did. What's wrong, Danny?"

well, there's nothing wrong, really, and danny feels his nose scrunch up thinking about it. he just can't sleep. _emmy's too loud_, he says, _I wanna sleep with mama. but you were having a bad dream._

bad dreams are the worst, and danny doesn't like thinking about them, so he always wakes taylor up if he can. just like mama or papa would. he's gonna be a _good _brother, a good boy.

tay smiles and ruffles his hair, but he looks tired, and danny frowns even though the buzzing running through the space-arm tickles. there was something yucky twisting in his tummy. he doesn't like it when tay's sad. because even though he's never had a big brother before, danny is pretty sure that tay and johnny are the best, 'cause they make sure he's never sad for long and give good hugs and don't make fun of him for always wanting to snuggle mama.

"Thanks for waking me up, buddy," tay whispers, and his eyes are shiny in the dark. "You want me to take you to Penny?"

tay is his brother, and they have the same papa, but he won't call mama anything but "penny." danny doesn't understand that. mama loves them both lots, he can tell, even if tay doesn't. because mama might not give tay as many kisses or hugs, but she brushes his hair back and tells jokes and they both get to sleep in her bed after bad dreams.

emmy and johnny says that it's a big kid thing. that he's just gotta let it go.

so instead of frowning, he nods instead and holds tay's hand. not the space one, but the other one, with chubby fingers and stubby nails. his palm is sweaty but he doesn't mind. not really. bad dreams sometimes make him wake up feeling like he's been swimming, soaked through his shirt and his pants until there's nothing but salty sweat dripping off him.

not tonight, though.

tonight, danny yawns behind his hand and follows tay down the hall. it's darker here. it makes his chest ache. but tay is holding his hand and there's light coming from his space arm. danny takes a breath. feels it fill him up and stretch and burn. then he lets it whistle between his teeth. tay squeezes his fingers. one, then two, then three.

he's safe here.

the dark can't hurt him.

tay pushes open mama's bedroom door and they tip toe in. except they stop in the door. danny doesn't understand. his eyes are fuzzy. he can't focus. then he looks harder and sees mama isn't _in_ her bed. which is silly, mama always sleeps here? it's dark. but danny can kinda see tay's face in the lights from his space arm. he's frowning, probably confused too.

"C'mon, Danny," tay whispers. "I think I know where she's at."

he's tired. he wants to sleep.

danny follows even though he's confused. his feet drag against the carpet in the hallway, quiet thumps. tay's feet always make a weird noise when they walk. a heavy clunk then a soft _thwump!_ sometimes the joints squeak and they have to oil them. and sometimes tay pretends they don't hurt, like his face isn't real pale.

those days mama puts a movie in to watch and they snuggle on the couch and she runs her fingers through their hair and if they flinch at something on the screen, she whispers, "You're a brave little man, baby."

danny doesn't always think that it's for him.

he's tired. very tired. he wants mama. where's mama?

tay opens papa's bedroom. it's darker in here, but there's a little bit of light coming from the windows. danny likes that it's never truly _dark_ here dark dark dark cold dripping hurt pain can't see it hurts mommy why? because the dark is scary sometimes, even though mama says he's very brave and getting better. tay holds his hand and their palms are sweaty. it's kinda gross. but danny just yawns until his jaw pops. it echoes into his head a little. it hurts.

danny's used to that, though.

"She's in here with Papa," tay whispers, and he sounds surprised.

_that's 'cause papa gives the bestest bedtime snuggles_, danny whispers back.

tay's being silly again. that's okay. sometimes danny is silly after having a bad dream, so he'll just have to be _better_ tonight. so danny goes to the bed first and pulls tay with him. he climbs up even though it makes his arms shake and his tummy ache a little, the y-shape on his chest pull, pull, pulling every time he takes a breath, and then he's up on the big bed. mama's all curled into papa. the big black drawings on papa's arms and legs are even darker, but he doesn't look sleep-mad, so danny thinks that's good.

he's so sleepy. he wants a cuddle.

so danny crawls over papa's legs real careful to keep them asleep. it doesn't work. mama always knows when he's coming to bed with her instead. she picks her head up and looks at him. her eyes are sleepy, too.

"Danny?" she says, and it comes out croaky. "What's the matter, baby?"

_emmy's snorin' an' tay had bad dreams_. danny crawls between her and papa. _so we wanna sleep in here._

it's warm and cozy between her and papa, safe, and danny likes how it smells like home. papa grumbles in his sleep but doesn't wake up even though he wraps a big muscly arm around them. it's heavy, but not scary heavy, and danny thinks it's really nice. he can't hold his eyes open anymore. he feels someone else crawl into bed, probably tay, except he crawls on mama's other side. tay never does that. he always snuggles up against papa.

except now.

instead, danny snuggles down between mama and papa, pushes his head up under papa's chin. papa sorta snorts and danny feels it rumble against his forehead. he feels mama kiss his hair. then she rolls over. he's sleepy, but tay's having a bad night and he can hear mama whispering. his brain won't stop listening.

are you listening, ghost, you'd better be listening _boy_ listen or I'll cut you listen or I'll hurt you listen and tell us where danny is do you hear me?!

"Taylor? Kid, what's wrong?" mama's got her worried voice. "You're shaking."

tay mumbles and it sounds like he's holding his face in mama's chest. "Bad dreams. 'm sorry."

danny thinks mama moves closer to tay 'cause the bed moves under him. but he's so _tired_. he can't open his eyes. papa's hugs are the best – not tight and not hard but strong and safe and warm and it's like being held by superman. or batman. batman's obviously the bestest.

his ears are full of cotton and he doesn't _want _to listen anymore. but his stupid brain won't let him _not_ and so danny hears mama whisper, "You don't have to be sorry for a nightmare, honey. You know that. What's wrong?"

and tay is shaking and it makes danny's tummy clench but he's just _so tired_ and then he's falling down down down, papa's chest under his head, and it's dark and quiet in this new place. he looks and looks but he can't see anything. but he's not scared. for the first time in a long time, he's not scared of the dark.

here, it's a friend.

for some reason, danny thinks he might not be alone. so he sits down on something he can't see and he waits. his legs swing back and forth and back again. there's something warm all around him, like a hug without another person? it's weird but danny doesn't think it's _bad_, maybe? just different?

"You're a clever thing, aren't you, little phantom?"

it's a new voice, not quite as deep as papa's. but it's got a funny accent that makes the words twist and run like water-color paints, the ones jazzy used to let him play with when mommy and daddy were busy in their lab needles screaming hitting hurt please stop stop stop stop

and then it's not so dark anymore. danny blinks, surprised, and looks around. he's sitting on a bench. in a park. like the one ms. spelka used to take his class to for recess except this one doesn't have swings or slides, just a big open grassy place with a bench. and _stars_. there's stars in the sky, so many he can't count, and danny looks up and gasps because they're _beautiful_! blues and purples and pinks lines in his arms head's going fuzzy mommy please why? and big patches of _colors_ stretching across the sky as far as he can see, lights everywhere he turns, and danny just. . . watches.

it's so beautiful.

he's almost forgotten about the voice.

then it talks right next to him. quiet and soft, like a feather pillow, but deep enough that it rumbles in danny's ears.

"They are beautiful, are they not? Stars have always been my favorite part of the universe. They are dreams, you know, burning bright enough for infinity to witness."

danny doesn't jump. he doesn't know why. but he's safe here? he thinks so, anyway. he turns and looks at whoever sits next to him. the man is strange. tall and with big shoulders but a tiny tummy and hands that end in dark black nails. he has horns on his head instead of hair. a scar over one big red eye. and his body is full of _stars_. big stars and little stars and all those sizes in between. he should be scary, especially when he smiles and his teeth are large and sharp. but he's not?

maybe he should be. but he isn't. and isn't that funny?

the man snorts and his smile is softer now. "Yes, you are a clever one, Danny. What do you like about stars, little one? Hmm? Tell an old man something nice."

it's like talking to grampy but not. danny thinks that's okay. he smiles and swings his legs back and forth on this bench in a nowhere-park and looks up at the stars. he says, "Stars are free. They're pretty and bright and they can fly _waaaaay _up in the sky without being scared of falling back down. I wanna be a star someday."

the strange star-man hums and folds his hands together. "That's a noble dream. Stars are the purest form of light, I think."

danny points to a purple one, smaller and bright with just bare little bits of red. "That one's my Mama's star."

the star-man blinks and smiles like he knows a secret. "Oh? And how do you know that?"

danny shrugs. "I do. It feels like Mama."

"I'm sure your Mommy would be very happy to know that."

and danny _scowls_, feels it twist his face and his legs kick harder, angrier. "Not _Mommy_! Mama! You know better!"

he doesn't know how he knows that. how does he know that? but the star-man laughs and it sounds like bells in a church. "Of course! I apologize, little one, it was a grievous error. Tell me, what makes you think that star is hers? She could be any star in the sky."

he hums. thinks for a second. tries to make the feelings in his chest and tummy into words. he can't, so instead danny shrugs and says, "It just feels like her. Like her hugs and her kisses and the way she tells stories."

"Ah, I see."

and he _does_.

they sit on the bench for a very long time and they talk about everything. stars and dreams and mommies and mamas and everything in between. he's a very strange man. he asks lots of questions that he knows the answers to. but danny thinks that maybe he's just lonely. so danny asks a question himself.

"What's it like not being able to dream?"

the man stops. his stars don't move. his eyes are very far away, like papa's sometimes get when he's remembering a bad thing. and then he hums, lips twisting around at the edges. "Empty, little phantom. It's very empty."

danny thinks that sounds right. all those stars, all that space, but nothing for yourself sounds empty. so he reaches out and pats the strange man on his hand. it's odd, cold and soft and not-all-there, kinda like pushing his hand through fog that's solid. but the star-man smiles and his eyes are gentle and his teeth are sharp.

"I've been watching you, Danny," he says, and danny nods. "You have very scary stars sometimes."

cutting pulling burning skaal-pulls needles screaming hitting yelling why why why mommy I'm sorry mommy come back daddy don't hit me why why why whywhywhywhy help me somebody anybody please help me jazzy please save me I'm not bad please help

danny nods and says, "Mama and Papa say I'm very brave. I think their stars are scary, too."

"They are." and danny wishes they weren't, even as the star man shrugs his shoulders. "I cannot change them."

"Yeah you could. If you wanted to."

the star-man laughs again and the field turns cool, breezes through the grass. it's lighter. more blue and less purple. he's going to wake up soon, he thinks. he's going to be scared again soon. danny thinks he might not remember this, either.

"I could," the star-man agrees. "But I will not."

"That's mean." danny whispers. "Bad dreams hurt them."

"It is. And they do."

"You shouldn't be mean to people. It's wrong."

"I agree. But sometimes, hurt is a good thing. They just don't know it yet."

danny frowns. his eyes are gritty. the stars are too bright. he can't focus. "I don't get it."

the star-man smiles and it's soft and his body is a whole galaxy, swirling and dancing and folding over and over on itself. "You will in time, little phantom. Now, I believe you've slept long enough. Your family is waiting for you."

there's grass under his toes. it's cool and soft and thick enough to curl his toes into. there's a breeze running through his hair. it smells like home. like mama's shampoo and papa's cologne and clean sheets. danny smiles. then frowns. he turns, looks up at the star-man, and says, "Have I been here before?"

the star-man puts a finger to his lips. "That's for you to remember, Danny."

"I don't remember your name."

this time the smile is sharp and the star-man fades in to the sky, leaving only the teeth and the eyes and danny thinks he should be afraid of this man. but he isn't. he doesn't know why. "When you need me, it will come. Now. . . "

_Wake_

_ Up_

and then danny is awake. his mouth tastes bad and his shoulders are sore and he's sweaty, sprawled out over papa's chest. he doesn't remember his dream. that's sad. sometimes, it's good, because his dreams are really scary. but this time, he thinks he'd like to know.

there are stars in the sky and sharp teeth and eyes and a voice he knows but doesn't

beneath him, papa yawns great big. "Mornin', kiddo. Did'ja have a bad dream?"

danny thinks. frowns. shakes his head _no_. then he says, _emmy was snorin'_ _an' tay had bad dreams, I think_.

papa puts a hand on his back and rubs it. danny can feel the rough spots catch on his shirt. but it doesn't hurt 'cause papa is always gentle. he smiles, and his eyes are tired, but he looks more awake than he has before. sometimes, papa gets bad dreams, too. mama told him so and that's how come he was cranky sometimes.

"Is that why y'all slept here last night?" he grumbles. "Yer elbows 're like _knives_, punk."

danny giggles and buries his face in papa's chest and says _nuh-uh!_ his tattoos feel rough under danny's fingertips. sometimes he likes to trace them, feel how they bump and grump like papa does sometimes. there's a big hand on his back and the ceiling fan is clicking and it feels like home.

he's not scared.

"Let's go find Mama, bud," papa groans and sits up. "She's liable t'burn the house down tryin' t'make breakfast."

danny giggles and lets papa scoop him up. his pjs are twisty and sweaty and his hair sticks up in weird tufts. but papa's big and safe and carries him in one arm. danny snuggles against him. traces the big black tattoos on one shoulder with his finger, feels the way they bump and grump and stay warm.

there are stars in the sky and one feels like mama but why can't he feel papa's star?

when they find mama and tay, they're eating cereal on the floor in their pjs. tay's eyes are puffy. he's sitting in mama's lap. but he smiles and it's nice and danny feels the knot in his tummy – the one that never _really_ goes away – go loose and warm. mama smiles too.

"Get in here, losers, we're having a cereal party," she says, and it makes papa laugh a little.

they have a pj cereal party, one that gets bigger when emmy finally comes downstairs, and danny knows his loves his family. he loves johnny, who isn't here but ruffles his hair and calls him "kid". he loves emmy, even though she snores and doesn't always remember he doesn't like loud. and he loves tay because he's his big bubby and has a _space arm_ and knows just what to say after bad dreams.

he loves papa. because papa _saved him_ and he's big and strong and gives the best hugs ever. because papa lets him ride on his shoulders and makes rocket pancakes and always lets him have the last chocolate.

he loves mama. because mama loves _him_. because mama holds him after nightmares and kisses his forehead and tells him that he's a brave boy, that he's good and he's smart and he's _loved_ and danny sometimes thinks he could sink right into her snuggles.

the world is big and scary when you're four, he thinks, even if he's going to be a big five-year-old next week. but his family is also big and they're warm and they. . . they _love him_.

danny smiles and takes a big bite of fruity loops and leans into papa's side.

"Sometimes, hurt is a good thing." danny thinks he understands that?

the kitchen is warm and this morning is bright.

he isn't scared, today.

*~O~*

Today had seemed like it would be a great day to write a song.

Until exactly this moment.

Ember blinked stupidly at Skulker for a moment. "What the fuck happened to you?"

The cyborg scowled through a grotesque black eye. Eyes? The whole left side of his face was a giant purple and black bruise that seemed to spread down his throat. There were scabs in his neck, dark green and. . . really fucking gross, if she was being honest.

Skulker grimaced and shifted awkwardly, favoring his left leg. "Will you let me in? Everything _hurts_."

If it hadn't been for the expression of sheer misery on his face, Ember would've let him stew on the front porch for a while. As it was, she hummed low under her breath before moving to the side. "C'mon, then. Penny and Pops took the boys out back for a while – something about picnic lunch or some shit."

Her boyfriend huffed through his nose, wincing, before shuffling past her to the kitchen. Ember still couldn't resist rolling her eyes.

"So, who'd you piss off this time?" she asked. "Because if it was Technus again, I'm gonna laugh _real_ fuckin' hard."

Skulker growled at her around his swollen jaw, in the middle of pulling out a bag of frozen peas – which were, like, blue for some reason – to put on his face. "It wasn't Technus. As though that puny little tech-monger could get the better of me."

Snorting, Ember snatched the bag of peas and wrapped it in a dish towel before shoving it back at him. "I'm not even gonna bother reminding you what happened last time Tech-trap got actually pissed off at you. Because it was pathetic watching someone half your size beat the ever loving shit out of you with a wrench. And don't let that thing touch your implants without something in between them – they're still sensitive to cold."

Of course, all she got was a grunt. Again. For someone who could literally rant for _hours_ about his trophy collection, Skulker couldn't take a hit for shit. He turned into a grumbly asshole.

Well, even more of a grumbly asshole, maybe.

Ember thought her eyes were going to fall out of her head from rolling them so hard. But she reached out and wriggled under his arm. "Lean on me and sit down before you really hurt yourself. Jesus, Skulker. . ."

The chair he sat in groaned ominously under Skulker's bulk. But it held, somehow. He sagged gratefully against it, ice pack still firmly planted on his face. His eyes were blood-shot. The bruise was going to spread. And his _leg_. . . Ember hadn't really noticed it before, but his left leg was twisted. And not like "oh-I've-gone-and-sprained-my-ankle-and-my-leg-twists-to-compensate" twisted. This was more of a "holy-shit-my-leg-has-fucking-splintered-and-now-it's-putting-itself-back-together-again" kind of twisted. It shifted a tad as she watched, resetting into a more natural position, and Skulker snarled under his breath.

A smidge of panic started to build in Ember's chest. Because Skulker was stupid, yes, but he wasn't _this _stupid. He would never have pissed someone off enough to get this beaten, not when it meant dragging himself half-way across the Zone and to Papa's doorstep for her help. Her fingers couldn't keep still, tapping out a rhythm along her thighs as she looked him over.

"Skulker, seriously, who the fuck did this?" Ember pinned him with a serious look. "Because if you did something that's gonna put Papa or Tay or Danny – _especially_ Danny – in danger, this is going to look like a love-tap by the time I'm done."

For the first time since coming through the door, Skulker managed to grit out a full sentence. "I had an unwelcome visitor stop by my island."

He was being evasive. Which was fucking obnoxious but normal. So that was a thing. Ember growled and leaned into Skulker's space. "Be more specific. I know you're dumb, but you're not that dumb. Now – _talk_."

There was actual fear in his eyes when Skulker looked at her, and it made Ember's body go cold. "It was Plasmius. He needed something from me. My tracking skills."

A thrill of fear lashed at her guts. "Jesus H. Christ, Skulker, what the fuck?!" she hissed. "Plasmius is a fuckin' psychopath and you _know_ that!"

His shoulders slumped forward, and Ember had never seen Skulker look so genuinely beaten before. The one eye she could see was exhausted, regretful. And she knew that even though her boyfriend wasn't exactly a good man, he definitely wasn't a monster like Plasmius was. Whatever was going on was eating him up. And _that_ scared the shit out of her. Like, her feet and hands were going numb it scared her so shitless.

"I know," Skulker sighed. "But I couldn't really refuse, Em. He didn't give me a choice."

"There's always a fucking choice, tin-head," she shot back. "You just chose to cave to him."

Even though it looked like it hurt, Skulker barked out a laugh. It wasn't a nice laugh, harsh and short and cold. "Yeah, I chose to cave instead of getting beaten to Fading in my own lair by some half-ghost freak." His shoulders sagged even lower. "Not all of us are like Walker, Em. Not all of us aren't scared to die again."

Her fingers were shaking. Ember swallowed around the new lump in her throat. Outside, she could just barely hear the boys running around and playing. They had no idea what was going on. And they probably never would. Because Papa or Penny one would keep them from seeing shit like this again like the lame-ass parents they were.

. . . sometimes, she wished she was little enough for that kind of protection again.

Fingers itching, Ember ran a hand through her hair and relished how the flame felt against her fingertips. "Okay, okay, I get it. Sorry – sometimes I forget that not everyone has Papa's special kind of masochism. So what exactly did Plasmius want? He always seems to figure out how to find things on his own. Why ask for a tracker?"

Skulker's jaw tightened. He hunched in on himself further. "He's trying to find a whelp. His godson. Should've arrived sometime in November, he said."

Ember's eyebrows shot into her hairline. "A godson?!" She whistled low. "Poor little bastard. . . why can't he just find the kid himself? He's, like, the strongest ghost the Zone has seen in a hot second. Finding a kid shouldn't be too big of a problem for him."

"He's taking care of the boy's sister. She's still alive." The look in Skulker's eyes was. . . she didn't quite know how to describe it, but Ember knew for a fact she didn't like it. "I think he plans on taking the whelp back to the human realm."

Okay. So like. . . "What in the actual hell is wrong with him?! New ghosts can't leave the Zone until their cores are strong enough, everyone fuckin' knows that?!"

Skulker ground his teeth. "There are so many things wrong with Plasmius that I can't even begin to start. But that's not the only problem" Glancing around, her boyfriend lowered his voice to a near-whisper. "Ember, do you know when Danny's birthday is?"

A ball of ice started forming in her gut. "Don't _even _fucking go there, borg-boy. That's not even remotely funny."

His eyes were solemn as a death-knell. "I'm not joking. Plasmius gave me specifics on the boy he was looking for. Small, Caucasian, would have arrived sometime in November. His name is Daniel but he goes by Danny. And his birthday is May 24th."

The world spun. Her ears rang. Whatever music she'd been hoping to compose later today flew right out the fucking window because, _holy shit_, Plasmius was looking for Danny. Vlad Plasmius – the half-ghost who smelled wrong and could break ghosts into pieces with the flick of his wrist – was looking for Danny. Who couldn't even look at pink stuff without bursting into tears and was _just _comfortable enough to call her 'Emmy.'

_Plasmius _was looking for _Danny_ and _Skulker _had been contracted to find him.

This was bad. This was so bad. This was so many fucking levels of bullshittery and bad and she didn't even know how to begin to process it.

"Em? Ember, you need to calm down. We'll figure something out." Skulker's voice wasn't usually so tinny, not since she'd helped him install those new sub-vocal processors. "For God's sakes, Ember, _breathe_!"

She took a breath. She was a ghost, so she didn't technically need to take a breath. But Ember took a breath anyways. Her hands were shaking, and her eyes were burning, and there was something aching at the back of her throat. She could feel her hair starting to lash out from it's ponytail.

"He's gonna take Danny," Ember croaked. "Holy _shit_, Plasmius is gonna try and take Danny."

A big hand, calloused and warm, landed on her bare shoulder. "He'll try."

That was the thing she loved most about Skulker. There was no bullshit. He wasn't a liar, and he wasn't good with words. He said exactly what he thought, even if that meant it hurt. Ember sniffed a bit (she wasn't _crying_, dammit, it was allergy season) and gnawed at her lower lip.

"What are we gonna do?" she croaked. "Papa's gonna do something stupid when he finds out."

This time, a wry grin managed to curl Skulker's weathered face. "I'd be more worried about what Spectra will do than your father. Your stepmother's batshit. I wouldn't put it past her to actually try and fight Plasmius by herself."

Ember scowled, then couldn't help but laugh a little. "You're right, Penny's definitely gonna be the one to throw hands. And she isn't my stepmom. . . . yet, anyway."

"She's already your stepmom," Skulker cackled. "She just doesn't know it yet. Those two are _idiots_, I swear."

At this point, Ember couldn't have fought the grin even if she'd wanted to. "Yeah. I'm not gonna call her 'mom' or anything, but I kinda wish they'd just bone already and stop _pining_. Fuck, they act like love-sick puppies or some shit. It's disgusting."

Skulker rubbed her shoulder comfortingly. "They make a shockingly good pair."

"Right?!" Ember pressed her forehead against the only un-bruised portion of his chest she could find. "I never expected it to work. But they're such _parents_, like, oh my God? Danny's got Penny wrapped around his little finger. Tay, too, if we're talking real shit."

"Danny's got _everyone_ wrapped around his little finger, _Emmy_."

She loved him. Dearly. But even though she loved him and was sorry he'd gotten hurt, Ember felt no guilt in smacking him hard in the chest. "You repeat that in front of anyone, and I'll castrate you in your sleep. Got it?"

"Got it," Skulker wheezed.

They sat together in the quiet for a while. Ember could still just barely hear the sound of her brothers playing outside. She could picture Papa and Penny sitting side by side. Probably under the big oak tree out back, the one with the tire-swing that Tay loved so much. Penny was probably curled into his side. He was probably ignoring everything but her. The boys were either playing on the tire swing or pretending to be astronauts, since that was Danny's favorite game. It was probably perfect.

And they had no idea.

"Skulker, what are you going to tell Plasmius?" she whispered.

He stiffened, a growl coming out of his throat, and reached forward to grip her hand. "Plasmius can smell a lie ten clicks away. I'll have to tell him the truth."

Ember clutched his fingers right back. "He'll come for Danny. He _can't _take Danny – it'd break him. It'd break _us_."

Skulker sat upright. The bruise on his face was livid, ugly as it began to heal, and his leg had only _just_ twisted back into place. But he wore a look of complete resolve, anger in his eyes, mohawk flickering in time with his core. The metallic-laced fingers wrapped around her burned. But not in a bad way?

"We'll let him come," Skulker rumbled. "And when he does, we'll be _ready_. Danny goes nowhere. Not with him or anyone else."

A shaky breath that she didn't need filled Ember's lungs. "Right. Danny's our brother. Danny stays with us. And we'll beat the fuck out of anyone who tries to take him."

Fangs glinting in the kitchen lights, Skulker grinned at her, then kissed her hard on the nose. "That's my girl!"

Warmth flooded her chest. Ember tugged gently on his hand. "C'mon, then. We should tell Papa and Penny now."

Fear flooded Skulker's expression. "_Now?!_" he practically squeaked. "Walker and Spectra might not do anything to you, but they're going to kick the shit out of me!"

"Why would they beat you up?" she questioned, knowing full-well what the answer was.

"Because I agreed to help Plasmius find Danny. You know, the whelp who has everyone in this damn house wrapped around his finger because he's too damn cute for his own good? The one that I'm pretty sure I'm going to get killed over?"

Ember scoffed. "Are you actually that scared of Papa?"

"Not Walker. Spectra." His expression was deadly serious. "That woman makes grown men cry for _fun_, Ember, I'm not about to tell her that Plasmius is trying to take her precious baby boy."

"Uh, yeah, you fuckin' are." Ember hauled him to his feet. "Besides, she'll stop being mad at you after about, oh, fifteen minutes or so. She holds a grudge only when it's logical. Like a civilized red-head."

Skulker gulped and slung an arm around her shoulders as they hobbled towards the back door. "Your stepmom is terrifying."

"She's not my stepmom."

Ember tried to pretend she didn't hear him mutter, "Not yet."

. . . she'd let him have his dignity for two seconds before his second ass-beating.

**A/N: It's been like eighty-five years and I have no excuse other than my summer work/school schedule has been crazy and I'm a lazy little shit. I'm not exactly sure how I feel about this chapter. I haven't done anything from Danny's perspective in SO FUCKING LONG, guys, and it took me a hot second to kind of get a feel for what I wanted to do with this chapter.**

**At this point in the story, Danny is starting to heal. He's been safe for a long time, is very much loved by his family, and is starting to come to terms with that. But he's still super screwed up – because trauma is not something that just magically heals overnight – and I kind of wanted to reflect that with keeping everything in his perspective lowercase. In his head, though, especially in that dream sequences, things are a little more put-together because he doesn't have to interact on a personal level? It's difficutl to explain, but I hope I conveyed the feeling I was trying to go for here. **

**I'd also love to hear your opinions on his interactions with Nocturne! Which totally aren't foreshadowing in the slightest, nuh-uh, no sir-ee, not in this house. In this house, Nocturne and Clockwork may be eldritch otherworldly beings capable of untold good and evil, but they also love smol beans and will protect them at all costs. Because fuck you, angst-brain, I've hurt Danny baby enough!**

**I'm sorry I didn't into the merging of the two story-lines this chapter, but it was getting way too long, and stuff like that needs to flesh more. So! I hope you all enjoyed this LONG overdue chapter, thank you so much for all your continued support, and I'll see you in the next one!**


	25. Chapter 25

She wasn't completely unused to being woken up by little elbows in her ribs. There wasn't a single person in the house that didn't have nightmares at least twice a week. And they were all snugglers (not that _anyone _would admit to such a thing) which meant she usually ended up with a kid or two in her bed on a regular basis.

But, Penelope groused, she wasn't really used to it happening twice in one night.

Another elbow shoved into her ribcage. Penelope grunted harshly, eyes squinting open in the dim. Her mind was fuzzy and muddled. But her middle was cold, arms a bit numb. What. . .? Still, a bit confused, she only just managed to register the sound of mismatched steps hot-footing it out of the bedroom. It suddenly clicked into place – Taylor. He'd had a nightmare. He'd come to the room. with Danny

He'd come to _her_. Not Walker, _her_.

The worry that seared through her core was white-hot, and Penelope only just remembered to be careful getting out of the bed. Eyes adjusted to the dim bedroom, she glanced over her shoulder. Danny was curled up under Walker's arm, smiling in his sleep. Walker was sprawled and snoring with hair falling in his face. And even though her stomach had tied itself in knots, she couldn't help but smile. They could be so damn _sweet _sometimes.

The live-wire buzzing under her feet reached a new pitch, and Penelope just barely heard the front door open and shut. Worry spiking, she got out of bed, readjusting the covers around Danny before heading after Taylor. The house was silent, but not eerily so, and she got a look at the clock on the VCR. A scowl took over her face – it was _six in the morning_. What the actual _fuck_?!

But even though it was definitely way too early to be Dealing With This, Penelope shoved her irritation into a tiny ball deep inside her. It wasn't Tay's fault that he had nightmares. He was a little boy. An irritating, over-hyper, shithead of a boy, sure. But still a little boy. He couldn't help getting nightmares any more than she could help keeping her back to the wall in a room. So she could suck it up and be a grown-up and deal with whatever problem he was having.

At six in the morning.

On a weekend.

Penelope stepped out onto the porch, arms wrapped firmly around her middle, and shuddered. Goosebumps rose along her bare arms. She tried not to scowl at the fact it was nearly June and Walker's lair still kept the temperature just this side of fucking _cold_. Glancing over, she took note of a bundle of blankets curled on the porch swing. Two sets of mis-matched toes – one bright silver and the other pale peach – peeped out from beneath the hem of one.

"You know, I can think of at least three different places to run after a nightmare that don't involve freezing," she began casually, voice rough with sleep.

A choked sob and a sniffle coming from under the little bundle was her only answer.

Penelope sighed quietly. She took a couple of steps, sitting cross-legged on the porch swing, and shivered. The air was always colder in this lair, especially at night, and she thought Taylor had the right idea bringing out a load of blankets. But that didn't seem nearly as important as the little boy shaking with sobs beside her. Gnawing at her lower lip, Penelope made a decision.

"Alright, kid, get over here," she groaned. "If you don't wanna talk, then at least have the decency to keep me warm."

The fact that Taylor didn't even bother putting up a token fight scared the _shit _out of Penelope. There wasn't a protesting bone in his body when she hauled him in her lap. He just sat there and shook, a sniffle leaving him every few seconds. Gently, she pulled the blankets from over his head to try and get a good look at his face. Taylor's hair stood in every direction. His eyes were red and swollen, his nose snotty.

Penelope's heart broke. "Oh, honey. . ."

His face crumpled, and Taylor let out a strangled wail before trying to bury himself in her chest. Penelope let him. She held him tight, one hand running through his hair, the other rubbing up and down his back. And he just. . . cried. The poor little guy just cried. So hard that it shook him head to toe, even as his little fingers clung to her shirt. Penelope sat there and let him. She let him wrinkle her shirt and snot all over her and stain her favorite tank top with tears. She sat there and let him cry on that cold-ass porch swing for so long her legs and feet started going numb.

The old swing creaked and swung and kept them company even as light started blooming around them.

Eventually, though, Taylor started to calm down. He sat there, sniffling, head tucked under her chin. Fingers playing with her shirt. Penelope managed a smile – sometimes, her boys acted just alike. No matter how big or small. She kissed the top of his head and breathed in the smell of his shampoo.

"Feel a little better?" she whispered, not quite willing to break the quiet.

Taylor sniffled and nodded, his cheek sticky against her collarbone. "Y-yeah. . ."

"Do you want to talk about it?" She freed one foot and started to rock the swing. "It must've been a heck of a dream. You're my bravest guy."

It was simultaneously funny and very _not _funny. Taylor had nightmares just like the rest of them. Nightmares about car-horns, screaming tires, and the crunch of metal on bone. And the aplomb that he handled them with was impressive and infuriating in equal measure. Walker refused to deal with his nightmares. Danny dealt with them by clinging to her in the dead of night. But, typically, unless Danny drug him out of bed, Taylor just handled his silently. Alone.

The fists clenched in her top tightened, and Taylor swallowed thickly, breath hitching in his chest. "Y-you gotta pro-homise not to t-tell Papa."

Warning klaxons were shrieking in her brain. Penelope quirked an eyebrow. "I can't lie to your papa, honey. But if you don't want me to tell him, I'll tell him to ask you about it, okay? Now, what's got you so bent out of shape."

For the first time since she'd gotten to him, Taylor made eye-contact with her. Penelope felt her heart clench at how _little _he looked. This was just a boy. A little boy with bucked teeth and ears too big for his head, and a personality that didn't quite fit inside such a pint-sized package. She managed to smile for him, still rubbing one hand along his spine.

"I-it's _dumb_," he hiccoughed.

"Taylor, honey, if it upsets you this much, it isn't dumb," Penelope insisted firmly.

For a long minute, Taylor did nothing. He trembled and sniffled, fingers toying with the edges of her top. Eventually, though, he started to speak. Quiet and frightened. Nothing like the energetic little shit he acted like most of the time. His eyes were trying to drill a hole in her sternum.

"At first it was like all the other ones. Bright lights and screaming," Taylor whispered. "T-then it changed. W-we were all h-home but. . ." he trailed off, starting to shake again.

"But?" Penelope coaxed gently.

Lower lip wobbling, eyes filling with tears, the little boy forced himself to continue. "P-papa didn't love me anymore. H-he said he ha-ad Danny now, an' th-hat he w-was b-better th-han me. A-and I t-tried to tell hi-him I'd be g-good. I'd be _b-better_. B-but he just _looked _at m-me, like I was _st-hupid_. L-like I'm a big, dumb _baby_. A-and I tried t-to find you, b-but y-you di-hidn't wa-ant me _either_. A-and ev-everyone s-said I wasn't good enough o-or _smart _enough and. . .a-and. . ."

He was working himself into a frenzy again, gulping down air, flushed and snotty. Penelope listened even as her core shattered. "Oh, sweetheart. . ."

Taylor let out a gut-wrenching sob. "I k-kn-know it's stu-hupid. But 'm n-not your r-real kid, an' my f-first m-mom an' d-d-dad d-di-didn't li-hike me. Th-hey didn't wa-hant me, either, so wh-why wo-hould y-you?!"

For a hot second, Penelope was worried she'd crush the crying boy in her lap she hugged him so hard. But she _refused _to let go. She wasn't letting him go now. Or ever. Because he said "you", as in plural. As in not just Walker. And fuck his parents, seriously, who gave their children complexes like that?! A breeze rocked the porch swing beneath them, cold and sharp, and Penelope knew she'd gone and fucking fallen ass-over-tea-kettle in love with another kid again. Because every single inch of her soul was going to protect this little shithead even if it killed her. . . well, killed her _again_. So she was going to sit on this cold fucking porch swing, numb legs and all, and let him cry as long as he needed.

Penelope kissed him on the forehead, ran her fingers through his hand again, and croaked, "Taylor, honey, do you wanna know why you don't have to be scared of that?"

Hiccupping, eyes squeezed shut as he clung to her, Taylor gasped. " 'c-cause it's _stupid_?"

"_No_," Penelope corrected sharply. "I told you once that if something makes you _this _scared, it's not stupid. Nothing about how you feel or what you dream is stupid, or dumb, or means you're a baby. And if I _ever _hear you talk about yourself like that again, I'll wash your mouth out with soap. Understand?"

His eyes snapping open, Taylor stared at her in naked shock. He nodded, all desperate tears and a snotty nose.

"Good," Penelope continued. "Now. . . you don't have to worry about any of that happening because you _are _our real kid."

There was raw skepticism in his eyes before he dropped them to stare angrily at her collarbone. Penelope fought down the vicious urge to punch things. Or people. Definitely people if she was being honest.

"But I'm _adopted_," he nearly spat.

Penelope quirked an eyebrow. "That's a weak argument, kid. Danny's adopted, too. Do you think he's any less our real kid?"

His shoulders hunched up around his ears. "N-no, ma'am."

"Being adopted doesn't make you or Danny any less our 'real' kid, Tay. It means we _chose_ you, shithead tendencies and all." Penelope managed a smile even though her eyes were burning.

Taylor's shoulders hunched even further, and she could practically taste the scowl twisting his chubby face as he glared at his mechanical fingers. "Yeah, r-right. Like you'd p-pick a b-broken kid."

Her stomach dropped unpleasantly, and Penelope slipped a finger under his chin, forcing the little boy to make eye-contact. "You are _not _broken, Taylor. You've had some bad things happen to you, bad things that lots of adults would have trouble dealing with. Losing your arm or your leg or both doesn't mean you're broken. Having nightmares doesn't mean you're broken, either."

There were tears still falling from his eyes. "It f-feels like it sometimes."

"I know, baby. But you aren't." Penelope brushed the tears off his cheeks. "You're just a little bent out of shape, that's all. We all are."

"How do you know?" he coughed.

Penelope started brushing hair out of his eyes, thumb stroking over his brow. "How do I know what, honey?"

Those big eyes locked onto her desperately. "That I'm not broken? That you and Papa won't get tired of me?"

This time, Penelope's smile was genuine. "I know you're not broken because you're a _good kid_, Taylor Walker. Because you're funny, and you're kind, and you're a good big brother. Because you're smart in your own way, even if you don't always recognize it. And I know we're never going to get tired of you because we _love_ you."

Taylor's lip was wobbling dangerously again. "A-and you w-won't stop, right? Y-you promise?"

"Kiddo, let me tell you a secret about parents. No matter what you do, no matter how much trouble you get in, no matter whether or not you're adopted – we are _always _gonna love our kids. It's non-negotiable. We love you so, _so _much, Taylor. And that's not ever gonna change." Penelope cupped his cheek in one hand, thumb tracing his line of freckles. "So you don't ever have to worry about us not wanting you, okay?"

Taylor sniffled, wiping his nose on his pajama sleeve, and smiled up at her. "P-promise?"

Penelope smiled right back. "Cross my core and hope to fry."

The little boy giggled wetly and launched himself up to hug her again. Penelope huffed, trying not to wheeze as he nearly strangled her. Instead, she hugged him back just as tight, kissing whatever part of his head she could reach. After a few minutes, Taylor let go to wipe at his eyes. Then he looked up at her seriously.

"Hey, Penny?"

"Yes, sweetheart?" She was kind of dreading whatever came next because she was _this fucking close_ to losing her shit.

"It's really, _really_ cold out here."

Relief forced a laugh out of her throat, and Penelope hugged him to her again. "Yeah! It really is! Let's go back in then, hmm? Your Papa's gonna lose his mind if we end up sick."

Ignoring the pins and needles in her feet, Penelope bundled Taylor up against her and stood. He wasn't heavy, exactly, always small for his age. But it startled her, how different he was from Danny. Then he tucked his head against her neck, one hand reaching up to play with her hair, and sighed heavily. Penelope allowed herself a secret grin – okay, maybe not that different after all.

"How do we even _get_ sick?" Taylor muttered against her shoulder. "We're dead. It doesn't make sense."

"Get used to that, little man. The whole wide friggin' world doesn't make any sense." Penelope paused mid-drawl to open the front door. "But that's all part of the fun, I suppose."

"Whoopie," Taylor deadpanned, head heavy on her shoulder.

Penelope snorted. "Don't sound so excited, kid, you'll ruin the mood we've set. And because of that, I think it's a cereal on the floor in our pjs kind of morning. What do you say?"

Taylor was quiet as she made her way into the kitchen. But, when she went to sit him on the countertop, he latched on tighter, legs wrapped about her waist like a vice. "Hey, Penny?"

This was becoming a routine, and a really shitty one at that. "Yes, Taylor?"

He swallowed thickly, burying his face so tight against her neck she could barely hear him. "Do you really think I'm a good kid?"

Penelope sighed. She stroked one hand over his back through the blankets. "Yeah, I really do, Taylor. You're a great kid."

Silence. Then – "Hey, Penny?"

She couldn't hold back a snort of laughter. "Yes, Taylor?"

"I think you're a pretty great mom, too, you know that?"

The whole world fucking _stopped_.

Penelope felt like she'd been doused in ice-water. Her arms were numb, weighed down with stones and lead. Her chest hurt. Her eyes burned. There was a ringing in her ears. It sounded a bit like screaming, like metal shearing, like the crunch of steel on bone. It sounded like a little boy shrieking _"MOMMY!" _as the world went black and. . . .

"Penny?! Penny, you're crushing me!" He sounded scared but far away.

But. . . but she was holding him? How could he be far away?

A cold little hand reached up to the back of her head, fingertips steel, and Penelope shuddered out a breath she hadn't known she'd held. There were tears on her neck again. Hot and sticky and _wrong_. Wrong, wrong, wrong, why did she always _do this_? Why the fuck couldn't she just. . . .?

"I'm sorry! I didn't mean to make you sad!" Taylor choked. "And I know I'm not the best kid, or the smartest kid. And I know I'm a big pain in the butt sometimes. But I'm right this time so you've gotta believe me – Penny, you're a _really good mom_."

No.

No, she wasn't.

Because she was Penelope _fucking _Spectra. She was a witch and a bitch and a leech and she sucked down misery like margaritas. Because she gave people depression and watched them spiral down with a smile on her face. Because she existed to serve Bertrand and she let Bertrand hurt her and because it was better to hurt and to make everyone else hurt than to think about what she'd done. Because it was better to smile with blood on her teeth than let anyone see her cry. And she wasn't _good_, never good, so how the fuck could she possibly be a good mom? Why the fuck did she think she could do this? She couldn't. . . she just _couldn't_. . .

Taylor held her tight around the neck. His tears were sticky. But the kiss he pressed to her cheek wasn't. His little body was warm and heavy against her front. Not cold, not stiff, not bloody bruised no no no no no not my baby broken. He was _there_. And he wasn't scared of her. Not really.

When was the last time someone hadn't been afraid of her?

"You're a good mom, I promise. You're a good mom, Penny, thanks. _Please_ don't be mad at me, I'll be better." Taylor was babbling. "I'll be _better_. Please don't be sad."

Slowly, the world came back into focus. Penelope swallowed a thick wad of saliva, eyes on fire. Her knees threatened to buckle. She nearly choked on self-disgust. How _dare_ she do this shit now? How _dare_ she make him think it was his fault?

"No, honey. No, you don't need to be better." Penelope managed to take a shaky breath and held him tighter. "You're _perfect_, understand? You're perfect."

Taylor snugged his face deeper in the crook of her neck. His little fingers were wound in her hair. But his core thrummed strong against her chest, and slowly Penelope found that breathing wasn't so difficult anymore. Her own cheeks were sticky, and her eyes still burned. But no one knew that, really. So what difference did it make?

They stood there for a few minutes, stock-still and silent, clinging to each other like anchors. Eventually, though, Tay broke the spell again.

"Can we have our cereal now?" he squeaked, soft and pitiful. "I'm tired of crying."

Penelope managed a wet laugh and kissed him firmly on the head. "Yeah. . . Yeah, kid, we can have our cereal now. What kind do you want?"

"Fruit Loops, please."

This time, when she went to set him on the counter, Taylor didn't put up a fight. He sat and rubbed at his eyes, still wrapped in his blanket cocoon as she snatched milk from the refrigerator and the box of Fruit Loops from the cabinet. And if he noticed her own eyes were red, or that her hands still shook, he didn't say anything.

It took about three minutes. But soon they were sitting on the floor. Wrapped in blankets like a couple of hobos and munching on enough carbs to fuel three humans. Penelope let Taylor sit in the crook of her legs, content to eat around him. It was better this way, she thought. Because this way she could feel his core thrumming against her chest. And she could listen to him mumble around big mouthfuls of cereal without him seeing how red her eyes were.

This way, she could be close, but he couldn't really _see_.

Penelope had only just swallowed her core when Walker and Danny came through the door. Both were sleepy and disheveled. Danny's hair stood out in different directions. Walker looked better than he had in days. It made everything hurt a little less.

So she smiled and did what she did best. . .

"Get in here, losers, we're having a cereal party."

. . . she lied.

*~O~*

"You fucking RAT!"

It was a hiss and a screech in the same breath, and Walker wasn't quite sure _how _Penelope managed to move that fast, but she'd punched Skulker in the face before he could process what the actual _crap_ was going on.

They'd been having a _good day_, too.

Danny and Tay had been playing together for a good hour after lunch without any hiccups. There'd been no panic attacks. No tears since earlier that morning. Penelope had been a little quiet, but she had sat next to him under the oak-tree outside and talked about. . . nothing. And everything. Walker had slept better last night than he'd slept in nearly two weeks and it had nothing to do with his family snuggled up against him and the smell of jasmine lingering when he'd woken up and it had been shaping up to be one of those rare, precious days when everything seemed relatively normal.

And then Ember had walked out the back door with Skulker – who looked half-beaten and _thoroughly_ terrified – and the defecation had hit the rotary-cooling device, as it were.

"Plasmius is looking for Danny," he'd blurted. "He wants me to find him and report back by the end of the week."

For once, he was thankful for Em being the obnoxious older sister she was – she'd immediately whipped Danny and Tay up and took them inside for ice-cream. They didn't see anything.

Walker could feel static starting to creep up behind his skull. But he managed to get ahold of Pen before she landed another right-hook to Skulker's jaw. His arms were shaking, locked like a vice around her waist as she thrashed and snarled. There was already a wicked looking bruise spreading across Skulker's metal-laced face. And much as he _hated_ to admit it, the poor sunuva gun didn't need to be beaten again.

No matter how much Walker wanted to do it himself.

"Hon, ya need t' calm down," he wheezed. "Let's listen to 'im first. We'll beat 'im down later."

Penelope was shaking like a beat dog, and he wasn't quite sure if it was anger or nerves. But something in Walker's gut told him that he shouldn't take a chance on letting her go just yet. Not when he could feel her core thrumming against his forearm, when her body was coiled like a rattlesnake ready to strike. His skin itched around the glyphs branded into it, and he could feel them going taut around the lair. They were holding strong, getting ready. And Plasmius wouldn't know what hit him if he went up against them.

Still, the power thrumming under his skin didn't stop Walker from recoiling when Penelope turned her glare against him.

"Let. Me. _Go_," she hissed.

Walker dropped her like she'd burned him. "Sorry, Pen. But ya can't just. . . _beat 'im_ 'til we know what's goin' on? Okay?"

She was stiff as a board, black veins threatening to completely overtake her face, but Penelope set her jaw and gave a sharp nod. "_Fine_."

Walker put a hand on her shoulder, gentle but firm, and forced her to look at him. "Hey. . . it's gonna be okay. I promise."

Pen's eyes were wet, white-rimmed and terrified. But she nodded once. Walker offered her a half-smile. All he offered Skulker was a glare. Tension ripped through his jaw. His fingers kept twitching. Mostly because he wanted to follow Pen's example and just beat the dog _piss _out of the hunter.

Though, it looked like Plasmius had kind of beat him to it.

"Start talkin'," he snarled. "And don't leave anything out. Or you'll be _sorry_."

Skulker groaned, picking himself up off the grass and rubbing at the bruise on his face. There were blackened rings around his implants.

"Jesus, woman, you have a mean right-hook," he grumbled. "Was that necessary? I'm trying to _warn_ you here."

Penelope snarled. "Shut the fuck up and tell us what's going on!"

There was a smart-aleck response building somewhere in the cyborg's body. Walker could _feel _it. But, judging by the way Pen was shaking, there was no way he'd walk away from the whooping he'd get if it came out. So Walker forced himself to intervene.

"When'd ya see Plasmius, Skulker?" he interjected. "Start there."

Skulker grimaced, forcing himself to his feet. "Night before last. I just now healed enough to get over here without falling apart. He came to the island and asked for my help tracking down his godson. A boy, Caucasian. Said he'd formed sometime in November."

The static in his head reached a fever-pitch. Walker tightened his grip on Penelope's shoulder just a hair. His skin was too tight. There wasn't enough air in his chest. Not enough space in the lair. He was pinned in, unable to move or think or breathe. Pen was still shaking. She was scared.

"That don't prove he's looking for Danny, Skulker." Walker managed to force the words out of his throat somehow.

"He said the boy's name is Daniel," Skulker continued, voice solemn and quiet. "That he goes by Danny."

Penelope shook harder.

"His birthday is on the 24th."

Walker felt the world tilt on its axis. His mouth was dry and his stomach was in knots and his core kept throbbing in his ears. Why? Why and how and what the actual _crap _was going on?! His fingers were shaking around Penelope's shoulder. Or maybe that was Penelope herself. She trembled head to foot, green eyes bleeding into red around the edges. She stared at the hunter, mouth working, but nothing came out but a horrified wheeze. Blindly, he groped for her hand. When he found it, her fingers were ice-cold, and she squeezed hard in return.

They'd been having a good day. . .

"What's Plasmius want with Danny?" Walker growled. His jaw was going to shatter under the tension.

Skulker managed to stand to his full height even though it looked like his ribs were broken. He was solemn and serious. "I don't know. He said something about having custody of his goddaughter, that he wanted to find her brother." The cyborg ran a hand through his flame-hair and rolled his shoulders. "I opened my mouth before I could think. Tried to back-track but," he gestured to his face, "that didn't work on Plasmius. He expects a report within the week."

For a long while, no one said anything. He could faintly hear Em singing in the house, echoed by the sound of chords from the acoustic she kept around for writing. She was keeping Danny and Tay occupied – good. Walker felt like someone had filled his head with rocks. His chest was tight. There was ice building in his toes, crawling through his veins until it froze his heart solid. This was _bad_.

Because Plasmius was a nasty piece of work on a good day. One foot in the living realm, the other foot in the grave, and not a single brain-cell that wasn't either conniving or outright insane. Not to mention he was strong. _Scary _strong. There weren't a whole lot of ghosts who could beat Skulker pulpy, nor where there many who made Walker this nervous. But here they were.

"You. . . you sold him out to Plasmius," Penelope breathed.

Walker jerked his head up.

Pen had stopped shaking.

Her eyes were wide, tears gathering in them, and her face was ashen. She'd gone stock-still, arms hanging limp at her sides. Her fingers were lax in his grip. But that wasn't what scared Walker. What scared him was the dead, resigned look in her eyes. It was like all the fight had just. . . gotten sucked out of her. Like she'd completely given up on everything.

"You sold my baby out to Plasmius," she rasped a second time. "And now I'm going to lose him."

Skulker glanced between them, eyes widening in panic. He swallowed thickly, fingers clenching up, and shuffled from foot to foot. "I didn't realize. . . I didn't mean. . ."

A tear streaked over Penelope's cheek. Silent. Her expression could've been carved in marble for all it changed. Walker felt his core sink into the pit of his stomach. The static built behind his eyes. His mouth was dry. She looked so broken. So defeated. He'd _never _seen that look on her before. He'd seen Pen exhausted, yeah. And he'd seen Pen resigned before, sure. But he'd never seen her broken.

It scared the _hell_ out of him.

"Skulker, git inside," Walker growled.

The hunter looked conflicted. "I want to fix this. We should come up with a plan to – "

"Get. Inside. _Now_."

Stupid as he could be, Skulker knew which lines didn't need to be crossed. Bruised and half-bloody, the hunter shot one last half-concerned, half-panicked glance at Penelope. She dead-eye stared. Walker felt ice creeping up his fingertips. His skin itched. It burned. He wanted to punch something Plasmius, he wanted to punch Plasmius and he wanted to punch Skulker and he wanted to punch _Bertrand_ over and over until his fists split wide open and spilled green everywhere and but that wouldn't do any good. So he glared until Skulker turned instead. The cyborg's shoulders hunched around his ears, and he slunk back into the house with his tail between his legs.

It was quiet except the buzzing, rushing, whooshing in his ears.

Walker turned. Penelope didn't look at him. She stared into space. Fear clawed at the inside of his skull, but he crushed it beneath his heel. He ran a thumb over the back of her knuckles. She didn't move. Another tear ran down her cheek.

"Pen?" he murmured. "Sugar, it's gonna be alright. Plasmius ain't takin' Danny nowhere, ya hear?"

Slowly, Penelope started shaking her head. "I know the laws, Walker. He's Danny's godfather from _that_ side. His claim takes precedence."

There was bile trying to climb up his throat. Walker shook his head and swallowed hard. He moved a bit closer, stepped in front of Penelope to make her just. . . _look_ at him, acknowledge him, _something_. Her hands were still, though, and her fingers were cold. That didn't stop him from running his thumb over them. And it didn't stop him from squeezing just a bit, either.

"That don't matter," Walker rasped. "Danny's _our _boy now. Plasmius can take bein' a godfather an' shove it where the sun don't shine."

Penelope finally lifted her head to look at him, but her eyes were still vacant, still terrifying. "Walker, we can't fight something like that. You know that. There're laws about things like this."

"_Forget the law!_" he snarled. "He can scream and make claims 'til he's all outta air, but that don't change the fact I ain't lettin' him in twenty yards of Danny."

There were more tears building in Penelope's eyes. They slipped down her cheeks, silent. But her expression didn't change. It was still broken and blank, carved out of marble. Walker could feel the air trying to freeze in his chest. Fear whispered in his ears, clawed at his head, static and popping bubbles. For a long time, she didn't say anything. Just stared at some weird point in the distance.

"I don't know why I thought I could do this," she finally whispered. "I _knew _this would happen, deep down. It always does. This is what I do. I care, and I meddle, and eventually I fuck it all up. Bertrand's right – I can't be a mom. Monsters don't get to be moms."

Rage.

Pure, unfiltered, white-hot _rage_.

It rushed into him and filled him straight to the brim, hissing like a snake. It burned. It made his chest feel too small, like it just couldn't keep him all together.

"Penelope, look at me," Walker coaxed, voice shaking. "_Look_ at me."

She finally made eye-contact, and Walker let go of one hand to brush the hair from her face. More tears streaked down her face. He was going to rip him apart and scream and beat him until there was nothing left but a green smear because how _fucking dare he _and the private smiles with his white eyes and there's bombs and the smell of old scales and he can't breathe punch every tooth out of Bertrand's head tomorrow, he swore on his core. The glyphs burned into his skin itched.

"You are a _good _mama, you hear me? I could'a never done all this by myself. Danny's only gotten this much better 'cause a _you_. 'cause you love him an' you know what his favorite colors are, an' what he likes to read 'fore bed, an' you watch 'im when he sleeps just so he don't get nightmares. He thinks you put the stars in the sky. And Tay ain't far behind him." Walker took a shaky breath, feeling his eyes burn. "So don't you _dare _think about givin' up on him, Pen, he _needs_ you."

The stone expression cracked. Penelope's face crumpled into a watery, defeated smile. The dead look in her eyes stayed. Walker felt panic starting to creep up on him.

"Did you know I had a son when I was alive?" she rasped.

Walker swallowed thickly. The lair felt like it was spinning under him. "No, hon. I didn't know that."

She hummed and it wasn't a pretty sound. One hand reached up to grip at his wrist, anchoring it to her face. "I had him out of wedlock. Some asshole one-night stand - I didn't even bother trying to settle with him. And it was the forties, so you can imagine how well it all went over. . . Can you imagine? A woman psychiatrist and her bastard kid, trying to make it." More tears rushed down her cheeks, and she barked out an ugly, _ugly _laugh.

"I should've known better, really. That's kinda the whole reason I died, actually. We went out for ice cream one night after I got off work – I had to find a second job as a secretary because there weren't enough people willing to hire a female shrink – and ran into a bunch of drunk teenagers. They were all piled in the back of this old pickup. They were cat calling. I ignored them, tried to get back to my car. But I wasn't paying close enough attention because how could a slut like me just _ignore _the star quarterback, hmm? We tried to pull out of the ice-cream shop. The truck T-boned me. The last thing I remember is someone shouting, 'fuck, we killed the old lady, run!'. I was thirty-five, and they were calling me an old lady."

Walker felt like he was going to be sick.

Penelope's stare was feverish, desperate, and it somehow wasn't any better than the blank look he'd gotten before. "My little boy was six. He was _six_, and I couldn't even keep it together enough to keep him safe from a bunch of drunk _teens_. I lost him. So how the fuck am I supposed to help Danny?!"

He couldn't take any more. Walker crushed Penelope to his chest and held tight. She wailed into his shoulder, nails clawing at him through his shirt. But he didn't let go. He _wouldn't _let go. Not now, not ever because nobody deserved any of what she'd gone through, in life or in death. Tears kept burning at the back of his eyes.

"Shh, now, honey, I gotcha. I gotcha," he soothed. "It ain't yer fault, sugar. None of that's on you, baby doll, I'm so _sorry_. Shh, I gotcha. I gotcha, honey, I'm sorry."

"I can't lose my baby," she gasped, coughing. "I can't lose another baby, Walker, I _can't_. Please, I just _can't_."

"He ain't goin' nowhere, sugar. I promise." Walker pulled her away just enough to look her in the eye. "I _promise_, alright? Danny stays here. Plasmius won't touch him."

Her breath came in ragged gasps, and Penelope looked borderline manic. Black veins were trying to creep up around her eyes again. "The laws, Jeremiah, what about the - ?"

"_Fuck _the laws, he's stayin' here." Walker brushed some of her tears away with his thumb. "He's stayin' with his mama, got it?"

Penelope's face crumpled again. But she nodded. Somehow, Walker found it in him to smile a bit, and he pressed a hard kiss against her forehead without thinking. The hand on his wrist tightened. Penelope leaned into his chest.

"Okay," she hiccupped. "_Thank you_, Walker."

His arms felt like they were filled with lead, his gut filled with cement. But Walker hugged her hard to him again. "You're a good mama, Penelope Spectra. Don't you _ever _let someone tell you different again, you understand me?"

She didn't talk again. Just nodded against him.

"We gotta go back inside here in a minute," he continued. "We gotta make a plan – can't go off half-cocked like I always do."

Penelope tightened her hold on his shirt. "I don't – "

"Not right now, hon," Walker soothed. "But in a minute. We'll stay here long as ya need, 'kay?"

The whole lair felt tight as a bowstring, and his nerves were shot. But Walker held her tight anyway. Penelope trembled against him. But, somehow, he knew it was a good thing. Kinda like popping a cork on a shook-up bottle. Relieving the pressure. Gently, he ran his fingers through her hair, rubbed circles on her upper back.

Penelope Spectra had somehow become the strongest person he knew, and if that wasn't a strange thought, he'd eat a cow patty.

Eventually, Pen pushed against his chest, wiping at her eyes. She took a deep breath.

Then she looked him square in the eyes and said, "First thing's first – I want to punch Plasmius in the dick."

He barked out a startled laugh, relief flooding through his chest his skin itched and itched and itched and it wasn't going to stop until he'd stomped everyone through the ground at the steel in her expression. "There she is! That's my girl!"

Penelope smiled, and it was ragged at the edges, dangerous. "I'm serious. You can ward-threaten him all day long, but I wanna punch him in the dick."

They turned to head back into the house, and Walker slung an arm around her shoulders. "Can I ask why?"

"Principle."

"Ah."

Walker stopped before they reached the back door, unwrapping his arm from Penelope's shoulders. She looked small. But not broken. . . just a little jagged, a little bent and bruised. She lifted her chin to stare back at him.

"Can I ask you a question, Pen?"

Wariness crept into her eyes. "Yes?"

"What was 'is name? Your boy?" He kept his voice quiet, solemn.

Penelope's chin wobbled a bit, but she smiled anyway, faraway and dreamy. "William. His name was William. Everyone called him Billy."

Walker filed the information away. He reached out for her hand again. She laced their fingers together, and he stroked his thumb over her knuckles.

"He was a lucky kid, y'know? Havin' a mama like you."

A tremble went through Penelope's arm, and she squeezed his hand tight. Walker thought back to all the little moments from the past several months. The days where she'd sat on the couch for hours with Danny and talked. The flying lessons, the panic attacks, the energy buildup. He thought about how they'd curl up under blankets, or how they'd read together. How he always seemed to find Penelope checking on the boys after a bad dream. And he thought about how Tay had started coming around more often, about how they'd all fallen asleep on the couch last week in a big pile, about how he'd come into the kitchen this morning to find them eating cereal on the floor, and how not a single _bit _of that had seemed out of place because. . .

That was just how Pen _was_ with them.

He pictured a little boy with red hair and freckles and his mama's smile, and his chest tightened.

"He was a _real_ lucky kid," Walker muttered.

Swallowing, he shoved the image away for later and twisted the door handle. Because they couldn't afford to dwell on that now.

Plasmius was coming.

**A/N: This chapter is likely to be revised in the future, be warned. But I've been working on it for literal WEEKS now, and this was as close to what I've envisioned as I could possibly get. I'm not quite happy with it. But! The angst train has returned to the station, and you children have buckled back in for the ride. **

**Don't worry - it won't stay for too long, I promise. **

**Please, please, please leave a comment because they are basically food for my soul, and thank you so much for reading!**


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